A  FAMILY  ALBUM 


A  FAMILY  ALBUM 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


by 

ALTER  BRODY 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 


New  York      B.  W.  HUEBSCH      Mcmxviii 


Copyright,  1918,  by  B.  W.  Huebsch 

PRINTED  IN  U.  S.  A. 


TO  RUSSIA 


39GG60 


Some  of  the  poems  in  this  book  appeared  in  the  following 
magazines :  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  The  Outlook,  The  Seven 
Arts,  The  Dial,  Hearst's,  Everybody's,  McCall's,  The  Inde 
pendent,  The  Bookman,  The  American  Hebrew  and  Ameri 
can  Jewish  Chronicle,  to  the  editors  of  which  the  author 
exDresses  his  acknowledgment  for  the  right  to  reprint. 


INTRODUCTION 

A  favorite  literary  theory  (and  one  which  I  always  de 
fended)  concerns  the  vast  amount  of  remarkable  poetic 
work  that  is  produced  in  America  by  poets  whose  names 
are  known  only  to  the  postmaster  and  the  callous  clerks 
who  have  charge  of  the  rejection  slips.  If  once  these  in 
glorious  but  never  mute  Miltons  could  reach  their  audience, 
our  native  literature  would  develop  a  sudden  and  spontane 
ous  power  that  would  rouse  the  nation  and  blend  our 
polyglot  voices  in  one  homogeneous  choir.  At  least,  so 
I  thought.  My  first  shock  came  when  I  helped  read  the 
manuscripts  submitted  to  the  late  lamented  (by  some) 
Masses.  True,  I  became  acquainted  with  a  few  thousand 
names  I  had  never  seen  before;  I  was  made  privy  to  the 
rhymed  and  vers  libre  secrets  of  a  generation  of  publicly 
intimate  young  people;  I  became  convinced  that  every 
motorman,  bill-collector,  plumber,  minister,  travelling  sales 
man  and  undergraduate  had  read  Whitman  and  was  con 
vinced  he  could  improve  upon  him.  But  the  fresh,  per 
sonal  and  authentic  note  that  should  have  been  so  strik 
ingly  in  evidence  was  striking  only  in  its  absence. 

A  year  or  two  later  The  Seven  Arts  was  founded,  and  part 
of  its  unwritten  programme  was  based  on  the  hope  of  dis 
covering  new  and  significant  talent.  I  entered  upon  my 
combined  duties  as  advisory  editor,  second  reader  and 
theorist  with  renewed  enthusiasm.  But,  with  two  excep- 

[7] 


dons,  .my  e*pen£nde>  w&sr.  almost  identically  the  same  as 
when  I  performed  a  similar  function  a  little  earlier  in  my 
journalistic  career.  The  only  new  thing  I  learned  was 
that  most  of  the  writers  referred  to  in  the  previous  paragraph 
seemed  to  have  stopped  imitating  Whitman  and  were  busy 
boiling  down  the  psycho-analytic  studies  of  Doctors  Freud 
and  Jung.  It  may  be  blasphemy  these  revolutionary  days, 
but  it  is  a  fact  that  the  best  poetry  was  submitted  by  the 
best  known  poets. 

This  was  the  cheerless  conclusion  that  had  been  forced 
upon  me  the  day  that  a  particularly  high  tower  of  manu 
scripts  was  left  on  my  desk.  I  remember  slitting  the  en 
velopes  with  a  certain  pity  for  letter-carriers  in  general  and 
a  contempt  for  theories  in  particular.  And  then  my  eye 
was  arrested  by  a  few  lines  signed  Alter  Brody.  I  may  as 
well  admit  that  it  was  the  name,  with  its  frank  incongruity, 
that  held  me  first.  But  it  was  the  brief  poem  that  held  me 
longest.  It  was  called  "  Lamentations  "  and  it  was  the  sort 
of  poignant  picture  that  persists  and  grows  stronger  after 
the  mind  has  passed  to  other  matters.  I  took  up  another 
poem.  Then  two  more.  There  were  only  four  sheets  (a 
surprisingly  modest  amount  compared  to  the  quires  sent  in 
by  most  of  the  clamoring  applicants  for  space)  and  they 
were  of  uneven  quality.  But  in  all  of  them  there  was  re 
vealed  a  sincerity  and  sensitivity  so  keen  that  they  seemed 
to  possess  not  only  the  soul  but  the  blood  and  bones  of 
poetry.  In  those  four  poems  I  caught  an  intensity  that 
was  both  racial  and  individual,  an  utterance  that  was  no 
less  personal  because  it  caught  up  the  accents  of  a  people. 
So  with  this  collection  of  his  poems.  What  racial  signifi 
cance  it  has  is  almost  always  unconscious.  And  yet  the 
unifying  note  is  its  definitely  Semitic  undertone  —  that 
queer  blend  of  love  and  hate,  brutality  and  tenderness,  cyn- 

[8] 


icism  and  faith,  of  a  great  scorn  and  a  greater  suffering. 
It  is  this  Hebraic  power  that  makes  his  lines  seem  to  leap 
hotly  from  the  cold  black  and  white  of  the  printed  page. 
Everywhere  in  these  pages  one  sees  the  impress  of  an  alert 
and  original  mind,  of  imagination  fed  by  strengthening  fact; 
of  sight  that  is  sharpened  by  insight.  This  pungency  is  sel 
dom  absent,  but  it  is  most  clearly  seen  in  his  poems  where 
Brody  shows  a  passionate  participation  in  city  life  and, 
at  the  same  time,  an  apparent  detachment  from  it.  Much 
of  this  work  is  an  interpretation  of  industrial  activity 
against  a  background  of  ancient  dreams;  young  America 
seen  through  the  eyes  of  old  Russia.  Witness  "  Kartushkiya- 
Beroza  "  which  is,  in  microcosm,  a  whole  Russian-Jewish 
boyhood;  "Times  Square"  where  one  world  impinges  on 
another;  "Ma,"  "A  Family  Album"  and  "The  Neurologi 
cal  Institute  "  which  is  a  sort  of  Spoon  River  Anthology  of 
the  East  Side.  The  memory  of  the  Ghetto  haunts  this  vol 
ume,  even  Broadway  takes  on  the  quality  of  a  seething 
Judengasse. 

There  is,  let  me  hasten  to  add,  no  attempt  at  reconstruc 
tion  here.  Brody  offers  no  panaceas,  no  partisan  pro 
nouncements;  he  attempts  no  propaganda.  He  is  content 
to  record  the  interplay  of  environment  and  heredity,  to  fix 
the  moment  when  the  fact  blossoms  into  fantasy,  to  follow 
the  line  between  realism  and  rapture.  He  pierces  the  super- 
ficials  of  his  subjects  and  goes  deep,  turning  away  from 
nothing  that  is  raw  or  unpleasant.  He  does  not  reject  what 
is  usually  concealed,  knowing  that  ugliness  is  as  inextricably 
knit  with  life  as  beauty;  his  poetry  seems  striving  to  find 
the  point  where  what  is  ugly  can  be  balanced  and  finally 
fused  with  the  whole.  These  occasional  discords  and  sus 
pensions  are  not  only  natural  but  necessary  in  any  work 
that  purports  to  be  a  rendering  of  truth.  "  Art,"  this  poet 

[9] 


seems  to  summarize,  "is  not  only  a  record  but  a  harmon 
izing  of  dissonances." 

This  is  what  gives  Brody's  lines  such  vitality.  A  dozen 
poems  illustrate  his  gift  of  making  a  picture  and  then, 
with  a  slight  turn  of  phrase,  making  it  come  to  life.  Ob 
serve  "The  Deserted  Church,"  "A  Funeral:  Italian  Quar 
ter,"  "  A  City  Park,"  "  November  "—  to  name  four  utterly 
dissimilar  examples.  We  have,  in  each  of  these,  the  sharp 
word,  the  vivid  image  fused  and  fired  by  something  warmer 
and  more  vivifying  than  theories  of  art.  It  is  a  personal 
magic  that  pervades  these  young  and  passionate  pages  — 
a  magic  that  is  even  more  haunting  for  being  human. 
Poetry  is  almost  the  last  thing  that  one  can  be  dogmatic 
about,  and  yet  I  am  sure  that  these  poems  — .  .  .  But  it  is 
better  that  they  should  speak  for  themselves. 

Louis  UNTERMEYER. 


[10] 


CONTENTS 

Introduction,  7 

Kartushkiya-Beroza,  13 

A  Family  Album,  18 

Ma,  25 

Portrait,  30 

In  the  Circulating  Library:     Seward  Park,  31 

Lamentations,  36 

Times  Square,  37 

Ghetto  Twilight,  39 

In  t)he  Children's  Reading  Room,  40 

Jean,  43 

An  Old  Picture,  44 

On  the  Street-Car,  47 

From  the  Third  Story  Window,  49 

A  Bedroom  Interior,  52 

A  Funeral:     Italian  Quarter,  54 

Cross-Streets,  56  , 

A  City  Park,  57 

Before  the  Storm,  58 

A  Sunlit  Street,  59 

A  Sunlit  Room,  60 

By  the  Window,  61 

The  Hill-Path,  64 

Soliloquy  of  a  Realist,  67 

Pastel:  from  the  Williamsburgh  Bridge,  72 

The  Fire-Garden,  74 


On  the  Bridge,  78 

From  the  Jersey  Bank,  80 

November,  81 

The  Neurological  Institute,  82 

To-Day,  93 

The  Fiddler,  94 

Crowds,  95 

Grotesque,  96 

A  Clump  of  Pines:     Mt.  Morris  Park,  99 

On  a  Park  Bench,  101 

The  Play  Pond:     Central  Park,  102 

The  Deserted  Church,  104 

My  Beloved,  106 

A  Brooklyn  By-Street,  107 

Nocturne:     Fifth  Avenue  and  Central  Park,  110 

Winter  Nocturne:     The  Hospital,  111 

After  the  Lecture,  112 

Nocturne:     Central  Park,  113 

Spring  Tryst,  115 

At  the  Florist's,  117 

A  Postscript,  119 

Nocturne,  120 

A  Row  of  Poplars:     Central  Park,  121 

The  Old  Courtesan,  123 

Pride,  124 

Psalm  CLI,  126 

A  Lost  Leader,  128 

To  Russia,— 1917,  130 


KARTUSHKIYA-BEROZA 

IT  is  twelve  years  since  I  have  been  there  — 
I  was  born  there, 
In  the  little  town,  by  the  river  — 
It  all  comes  back  to  me  now 
Reading  in  the  newspaper: 

"  The  Germans  have  seized  the  bridge-head  at  Kartushkiya- 
Beroza  ; 

The  Russians  are  retreating  in  good  order  across  the  marshes. 
The  town  is  in  flames." 

Kartushkiya-Beroza ! 
Sweet-sounding,  time-scented  name  — 
Smelling  of  wide-extending  marshes  of  hay; 
Smelling  of  cornfields; 
Smelling  of  apple-orchards; 
Smelling  of  cherry-trees  in  full  blossom; 
Smelling  of  all  the  pleasant  recollections  of  my  childhood  — 
Smelling  of  Grandmother's  kitchen, 
Grandmother's  freshly-baked  dainties, 
Grandmother's  plum-pudding  — 
Kartushkiya-Beroza ! 

I  see  before  me  a  lane  running  between  two  rows  of  strag 
gling  cottages  — 

I  cannot  remember  the  name  of  the  lane; 
I  do  not  know  whether  it  has  any  name  at  all ; 

[13] 


But  I  remember  it  was  broad  and  unpaven  and  shaded  with 
wide-branching  chestnuts 

And  enters  the  market-place 

Just  a  few  houses  after  my  Grandfather's  — 

Kartiishkiya-Beroza ! 

I  can  see  it  ever  now 

My  Grandfather's  house  — 

On  the  lane,  to  the  right,  as  you  come  from  the  market 
place; 

A  big,  hospitable  frame  building  — 

Big  as  my  Grandfather's  own  heart, 

And  hospitable  as  Grandmother's  smile. 

I  can  see  it  even  now, 

With  the  white-pillared  porch  in  the  center  and  the  sharp- 
gabled  roof 

Pierced  with  little  windows; 

And  the  great  quadrangular  garden  behind  it; 

And  the  tall  fence  surrounding  the  garden; 

And  the  old  well  in  the  corner  of  the  garden; 

With  the  bucket-lift 

Rising  over  the  fence  — 

Kartiishkiya-Beroza ! 

I  can  see  him  even  now, 

My  Grandfather  — 

Bending  over  me,  tall  and  sad-eyed  and  thoughtful  — 

Lifting  me  up  and  seating  me  on  his  knees 

Lovingly, 

And  listening  to  all  my  childish  questions  and  confessions; 

Pardoning,  admonishing,  remonstrating  — 

Satisfying  my  interrogative  soul  with  good-humored  indul 
gence. 

And  my  Grandmother, 

Dear  little  woman ! 

[14] 


I  can  never  dissociate  her  from  plum-pudding  and  apple- 
dumplings, 

And  raisin-cakes  and  almond-cakes  and  crisp  potato-pan 
cakes 

And  the  smell  of  fish  frying  on  the  fire. 

And  then  there  is  my  cousin,  Miriam, 

Who  lived  in  the  yellow  house  across  the  lane  — 

A  freckle-faced,  cherry-eyed  little  girl  with  a  puckered-up 
nose  — 

I  was  very  romantic  about  her. 

And  then  there  is  my  curse,  my  rival  at  school,  my  arch 
enemy  — 

Jacob, 

The  synagogue  sexton's  boy, 

On  whom  I  was  always  warring  — 
v<k>d  knows  on  what  battlefield  he  must  be  lying  now! 

And  then  there  is  Nathan  and  Joseph  and  Berel  and  Solo 
mon 

And  Ephraim,  the  baker's  boy, 

And  Baruch  and  Gershen  and  Mendel 

And  long-legged,  sandy-haired  Emanuel  who  fell  into  the 
pond  with  me  that  time, 

While  we  were  skating  on  the  ice  — 

Kartushkiya-Beroza ! 

I  can  see  myself  even  now 

In  the  lane  on  a  summer's  day, 

Cap  in  hand,  chasing  after  dragon-flies  — 

Suddenly,  nearby,  sounds  the  noise  of  drums  and  bugles  — 

I  know  what  that  means! 

Breathlessly  I  dash  up  the  lane. 

It  is  the  regiment  quartered  in  the  barracks  at  the  end  of 
the  town,  in  its  annual  parade  on  the  highway  — 

How  I  would  wish  to  be  one  of  those  gray-coated  heroes! 

[15] 


I  watch  them  eager-eyed  — 

And  run  after  them  until  they  reach  the  Gentile  Quarter  — 

And  then  I  turn  back. 

Kartushkiya-Beroza ! 

I  am  in  the  market-place  — 

At  a  Fair ; 

The  market-place  is  a  heaving  mass  of  carts  and  horses  and 

oxen; 
The  oxen  are  lowing,  the  horses  are  neighing,  the  peasants 

are  cursing  in  a  dozen  different  dialects. 
I  am  in  Grandfather's  store, 
On  the  lower  end  of  the  market-place,  right  opposite  the 

public  well  — 
The  store  is  full  of  peasants  and  peasant  women,  bargaining 

at  the  top  of  their  voices; 
The  peasants  are  clad  in  rough  sheepskin  coats  and  fur 

caps; 
The  peasant  women  are  gay  in  bright-colored  cottons  and 

wear  red  kerchiefs  around  their  heads; 
My  Grandfather  is  standing  behind  the  counter  measuring 

out  rope  to  some  peasants; 
Grandmother  is  cutting  a  strip  of  linen  for  a  peasant  woman, 

chaffering  with  another  one  at  the  same  time  about  the 

price  of  a  pair  of  sandals  — 
And  I  am  sitting  there,  behind  the  counter,  on  a  sack  of 

flour, 
Playing  with  my  black-eyed  little  cousin.  .  .  . 

Kartushkiya-Beroza ! 

Kartushkiya-Beroza ! 

It  comes  back  to  me  suddenly  — 

That  I  am  sitting  here,  with  a  newspaper  in  my  hand 

Reading : 

[16] 


"  The  Germans  have  seized  the  bridge-head  at  Kartushkiya- 

Beroza ; 

The  Russians  are  retreating  in  good  order  across  the  marshes. 
The  town  is  in  flames!  " 


[17] 


A  FAMILY  ALBUM 


WORN  and  torn  by  many  fingers 

It  stands  on  the  bed-room  dresser, 

Resting  back  against  its  single  cardboard  buttress, 

(There  were  two) 

The  gilt  clasp  that  bound  it,  loose  and  broken, 

The  beautiful  Madonna  on  its  cover,  faded  and  pencil- 
marked, 

And  the  coarse  wood  of  its  back  showing  through  its  velvet 
lining. 

II 

I  remember  the  time  that  my  sister  Pauline  bought  it  for 

the  house 

(300  Cherry  Street,  fourth  floor,  right-hand  side,  front) 
Thirteen  years  ago, 

With  the  proceeds  of  her  first  week  at  the  factory. 
It  was  beautiful  then, 

The  golden-haired,  grave-eyed  Madonna  that  adorned  it. 
Her  blue  eyes  were  ever  so  much  bluer  and  clearer,  and  so 

sweetly  pensive, 

Her  golden  hair  fell  forward  over  her  bare  breast, 
Brighter  and  yellower  than  gold, 
And  there  were  no  black  pencil  marks  across  the  pure  white 

of  her  brow 

[18] 


Or  the  delicate  pink  of  her  cheeks. 

She  was  beautiful  .  .  . 

And  my  father, 

I  remember  my  father  didn't  like  that  album, 

And  murmured  against  the   open-bosomed   female  on  its 

cover, 

"  It  is  sinful  to  have  such  a  picture  in  a  Jewish  home !  " 
But  I, 
I  loved  that  album  because  of  its  glorious,  golden-haired 

Madonna. 

And  when  I  was  left  alone  in  the  house 
I  would  stand  in  the  parlor  for  hours 
And  gaze  into  her  ecstatic  face 
Half  reverently,  half  tenderly. 
And  sometimes, 

When  I  was  doubly  certain  of  being  alone, 
I  would  drag  a  chair  up  to  the  mantel-piece 
And  get  on  top  of  it, 
And,  timidly  extending  my  hand, 
Touch  with  my  trembling  fingers  the  yellow  threads  of  her 

hair  as  they  lay  across  her  breast, 
Or  the  soft  slope  of  her  breast  into  her  loose  robe. 
And  once,  I  remember, 

Ashamed  of  my  feelings,  yet  unable  to  repress  them, 
I  drew  the  picture  closer  to  my  face. 
And  pressed  my  lips  passionately  on  that  white  bosom  — 
My  first  kiss.  .  .  . 

Ill 

Somehow  I  never  cared  to  open  the  gilt  clasp  of  the  album 
And   look  through  the   photographs  that   were  collecting 

there: 

Photographs  brought  here  from  Russia, 

[19] 


Photographs  taken  here  at  various  times, 

Grandfathers,  grandmothers,  aunts,  uncles,  cousins, 

Sisters  and  sisters-in-law,  brothers  and  brothers-in-law; 

Photographs  of  some  of  the  many  boarders  that  always  oc 
cupied  our  bedrooms; 

(The  family  usually  slept  on  folding-beds  in  the  kitchen  and 
parlor 

Together  with  some  other  boarders) 

Boarders-in-law;  sweethearts,  wives,  husbands  of  the  board 
ers; 

Group  pictures:  family  pictures,  shop  pictures,  school  pic 
tures. 

Somehow  I  never  cared  to  open  the  gilt  clasp  of  the  album 

And  look  through  that  strange  kaleidoscope  of  Life. 

But  now, 

As  I  find  myself  turning  its  heavy  cardboard  pages, 

Turning  them  meditatively  back  and  forth, 

My  brain  loosens  like  the  gilt  clasp  of  the  album, 

Unburdening  itself  of  its  locked  memories, 

Page  after  page,  picture  after  picture, 

Until  the  miscellaneous  photographs  take  to  themselves 
color  and  meaning, 

Standing  forth  out  of  their  places  like  a  series  of  paintings; 

As  if  a  Master-Artist  had  gone  over  them  with  his  brush, 

Revealing  in  them  things  I  did  not  see  in  the  originals, 

Solving  in  Art  that  which  baffled  me  in  Life. 

And  all  the  while  as  I  go  through  the  album,  supporting 
the  cover  with  my  hand, 

The  yellow-haired  Madonna  gazes  at  me  from  under  my 
fingers, 

Sadly,  reproachfully. 


[20] 


IV 

Poor,  warm-hearted,  soft-headed,  hard-fisted  Uncle  Isaac 
In  his  jaunty  coat  and  flannel  shirt, 
Stiff  and  handsome  and  moustached, 
Standing  as  if  he  were  in  evening  dress  — 
His  head  thrown  backward,  his  eyes  fixed  forward; 
Conscious  of  the  cleanliness  of  his  face  and  hands, 
Fresh  washed  from  a  day's  grime  at  the  coal  cellar. 
When  I  look  at  his  bold,  blank  face 
My  mind  tears  through  the  dense  years, 
Along  the  crazy  alley  of  his  life, 
Back  to  a  Lithuanian  village  on  a  twig  of  the  Vistula. 
Kartushkiya-Beroza  (what  a  sweet  name  — 
Beroza  is  the  Russian  for  birch-trees) 

And  from  a  background  of  a  dusty  road  meandering  be 
tween  high,  green  banks  of  foliage 
I  feel  two  black  eyes  looking  at  me  strangely, 
Two  black  passion-pregnant  eyes 
Nestling  in  a  little  dark  face. 


Every  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  summertime 

When  the  town  was  like  a  green  bazaar 

With  the  houses  half -hidden  under  leaves  and  the  lanes 
drifting  blindly  between  the  dense  shade-trees 

After  the  many-coursed  Sabbath  dinner  and  the  long  syn 
agogue  services  that  preceded  it 

Mother  took  the  four  of  us  over  to  Grandpa's 

A  few  houses  up  the  lane 

Where  the  aunts  and  the  uncles  and  the  cousins  and  the 
nephews  and  the  nieces 

In  silk  and  in  flannel  and  in  satin  and  in  linen, 

Every  face  shining  with  a  Sabbath  newness, 

[21] 


Gathered  on  the  porch  for  the  family  promenade: 

Up  the  lane  and  across  the  Gentile  quarter  and  around  the 

Bishop's  orchard; 
Through  the  Polish  Road  past  the  Tombs  of  the  Rebels  to 

the  haunted  red  chapel  at  the  crossroads  — 
And  back  again  by  cross  cuts  through  the  cornfields, 
With  the  level  yellow  plain  mellowing  mystically  around  us 

in  the  soft  sunshine, 

And  the  sunset  fading  behind  us  like  the  Sabbath, 
At  twilight  —  just  before  the  evening  service  — 
Every  Saturday  afternoon,  in  summertime. 

VI 

They  rise  in  my  brain  with  mysterious  insistence 

The  blurred  images  of  those  Sabbath  walks  — 

Poignantly,  painfully,  vaguely  beautiful, 

Half  obliterated  under  the  cavalcade  of  the  years, 

They  lurk  in  the  wayside  of  my  mind  and  ambush  me  un 
awares  — 

Like  little  children  they  steal  behind  me  unawares  and 
blindfold  me  with  intangible  fingers 

Asking  me  to  guess  who  it  is: 

Across  a  wide  city  street  a  patch  of  pavement  like  a  slab 
of  gold; 

A  flash  of  sunlight  on  a  flying  wheel  — 

And  I  am  left  wondering,  wondering  where  I  have  seen 
sunlight  before? 

By  a  holiday-thronged  park  walk,  a  trio  of  huge  trees  thrust 
their  great,  brown  arms  through  uplifted  hillocks  of 
green  leaves  — 

And  I  stand  staring  at  them  penetratively; 

Trying  to  assure  myself  that  they  were  real, 

And  not  something  that  had  swum  up  in  my  mind 

[22] 


From  a  summer  that  has  withered  years  ago  — 
In  the  beaches  by  the  wayside  on  the  Polish  Road, 
Isled  among  the  birch  woods, 
As  you  come  out  of  Kartushkiya-Beroza. 
On  my  bed,  within  the  padded  prison-walls  of  sleep,  lurch 
ing  through  a  night  of  dreams; 

I  am  awakened  by  a  shrill  wide-spreading  triumphant  out 
burst  of  incessant  twittering  — 
Under  my  window  in  the  park, 

Catching  like  fire  from  tree  to  tree,  from  throat  to  throat 
Until  the  whole  green  square  seems  ablaze  with  joy, 
As  if  each  growing  leaf  had  suddenly  found  tongue  — 
And  I  raise  myself  in  my  bed,  dreamily,  on  my  elbows 
Listening  with  startled  attentiveness  to  a  sweet,  clear  twitter 
ing  in  my  brain 

As  of  a  hundred  populous  treetops  vying  with  the  pebble- 
tuned  waters  of  a  brook 
Gurgling  timidly  across  a  wide  road. 

In  a  hallway  among  a  party  of  girls  and  young  men  trip 
ping  downstairs   for  an   outing  on   a  Sunday  morn 
ing* 
The  coarse,  keen  pungency  of  satin  from  some  girl's  new 

shirtwaist, 

Through  my  nose  into  my  brain  pierces  like  a  rapier  — 
And  suddenly  I  am  standing  on  a  sunny  country  porch  with 

whitewashed  wooden  columns, 
All  dressed  up  for  a  Sabbath  walk, 
In  a  red  satin  blouse  with  a  lacquered,  black  belt 
With  my  mother  in  her  blue  silk  Sabbath  dress  and  grand 
mother  with  a  black  lace  shawl  around  her  head 
With  my  sisters  and  my  brother  and  portly  Uncle  Zalman 

with  his  fat,  red-bearded  face 

And  my  grandfather  stooping  in  his  shining  black  capote 

[23] 


with  his  grizzled  beard  and  earlocks  and  thoughtful, 

tiny  eyes 
And  poor  Aunt  Bunya  who  died  of  her  first  childbirth,  with 

her  roguish-eyed  young  husband 
And  smooth-shaven,  moustached  Uncle  Isaac  half-leaning, 

half-sitting  on  the  bannister  with  his  little  girl  clamped 

playfully  between  his  knees 

And  his  wife  Rebecca,  with  black  eyes  and  pursed  up  scorn 
ful  lips  standing  haughtily  aloof 
And  my  cousins  Basha  and  Miriam  and   little  Nachman 

clutching  at  Uncle  Zalman's  trousers 
And  their  mother,  smiling,  big-hearted,  big-bosomed  Aunt 

Golda,  offering  me  a  piece  of  tart 
As  I  am  staring  absently  sideways 
Into  the  little  dark  face  rimmed  lovingly  between  Uncle 

Isaac's  coarse  hands. 


124] 


MA 

WHAT  can  she  be  thinking  of  — 
This  gray-haired,  dark-faced  little  woman 
With  those  close-drawn  cheeks  and  humbly  lowered  eyes, 
As  she  bends  over  the  washtub, 

Scrubbing  the  wet  underwear  against  the  wash-board 
All  morning  long! 
What  can  she  be  thinking  of  — 
In  this  queerly  quiet  kitchen, 
Dark  and  small  and  clean-kept  like  herself, 
As  the  blown  rain  whips  against  the  window  pane 
And  swishes  into  the  yard 
With  a  soft,  continual  splash. 
I  have  an  impelling  desire  to  understand  her; 
To  know  her  and  get  nearer  to  her  — 
This  tired-faced  woman  who  is  my  mother. 
I  wish  I  could  get  into  her  bowed  head 
As  she  bends  over  the  washtub, 
And  look  through  her  dimmed  eyes 
And  see  how  things  seem  to  her 
After  fifty-seven  years  of  life  — 
Fifty-seven  years  of  the  great  commonplaces  of  life: 
Childhood,  girlhood,  wifehood,  motherhood; 
All  but  death  — 
And  that  too. 

Fifty -seven  years  of  sorrowing,  rejoicing,  despairing, 

[25]   ' 


Over  the  world's  timeless  joys  and  griefs; 

Questioning  not  the  scheme 

That  mostly  gave  her  things  to  sorrow  over, 

And  despair  over 

All  these  years. 

After  bringing  ten  children  into  the  world, 

In  the  ordinary,  miraculous  way; 

Nursing  them  with  unwearied  breasts, 

Working  for  them  with  unwearied  hands, 

Loving  them  with  unwearied  patience, 

Battling  for  them 

With  poverty,  death  and  disease 

For  thirty  years;  — 

Seeing  some  of  them  struggle  into  manhood ; 

Seeing  some  of  them  struggle  into  womanhood, 

Painfully,  joylessly; 

And  following  some  of  them  to  their  little  graves, 

In  their  birthplace  across  the  sea, 

Under  the  Russian  birch  trees. 

And  one  — 

She  who  was  your  first  born,  mother ! 

She  who  gave  you  most  joy  and  most  pain  — 

Seeing  her  grow  up  in  your  barren  house, 

Like  a  tall  tree  from  a  cleft  rock, 

Strong  and  healthy  and  haughty  with  beauty, 

Hating  her  humble  birth, 

Panting  for  color  and  joy;  — 

Seeing  her  flare  out  her  tumultuous  years, 

In  a  brief  feverish  fire; 

Until  you  followed  her  too, 

Burying  half  of  your  heart, 

Under  a  tombstone  in  Brooklyn. 

And  all  the  while, 

[26] 


These  thirty-seven  years, 

Mated  with  the  wreck  of  a  strong  man, 

The  wreck  of  a  great  soul, 

Broken  and  humbled  by  a  strange  disease, 

That  lurked  in  him  like  an  assassin  — 

Patiently  loving,  living,  bearing  with  him; 

Suffering  his  pain  as  your  own; 

Sharing  his  weakness  and  worshipping  his  strength ; 

Respecting  the  tragedy  you  could  not  understand. 

Woman,  woman, 

Sublime,  simple  mother  of  mine, 

Scrubbing  away  at  the  washboard 

With  gnarled,  mechanical  fingers  — 

What  do  you  make  of  all  this! 

How  do  you  reconcile, 

All  the  purposelessness  and  fruitlessness  and  contrariness 

of  things 

In  that  crude  mind  of  yours  — 
Seeing  the  faith  that  cloaked  you  from  the  truth, 
That  explained  and  arranged  and  combined, 
Systematizing  the  universe  into  a  well-ordered  household 
With  a  Master  who  saw  all  and  knew  all; 
Punishing  and  rewarding  in  inexplicable  ways  — 
Seeing  your  old  faith  cast  off  and  trampled  under  foot, 
Ignored  and  derided  by  your  own  children 
As  a  foolish,  baseless  fable. 
Mother,  poor  mother  of  mine, 
What  can  you  make  of  all  this, 
Scrubbing  away  at  your  washboard, 
This  rainy  morning! 
What  are  you  thinking  about? 
I  wish  I  could  know; 
Are  you  thinking  of  her  that  you  lost, 

[27] 


In  the  full-blown  bloom  of  your  hope  — 

Plucked  from  your  arms, 

As  you  held  her  do..n  to  the  bed 

Helping  the  doctor  that  day; 

Do  you  see  her  come  in  through  the  door, 

Quick  and  abrupt  as  of  old: 

Her  heavy,  masculine  step; 

Her  straight  and  broad-bosomed  figure; 

The  animal  health  of  her  cheeks. 

Are  you  remembering, 

Some  word  that  she  carelessly  dropped; 

A  certain  twist  of  her  neck? 

And  your  dark  face  darkens; 

And  your  gray  head  pensively  droops; 

And  your  eyes  that  have  wept  themselves  red, 

Glistening  with  oncoming  tears. 

Or  are  you  thinking  of  your  husband, 

Reeling  his  way  through  the  years, 

Stupefied  by  his  fate  — 

Falling  and  rising  and  falling, 

Under  the  bludgeon  of  life ! 

And  you  remember  a  Sabbath  afternoon 

In  Kartushkiya-Beroza, 

When  the  town  turned  out  for  a  stroll ;  — 

How  you  walked  by  his  side  on  the  highway, 

Proud  to  be  envied  of  all. 

Or  are  you  thinking  of  me  — 

Your  strange,  queer,  puzzle  of  a  son; 

The  poet-changeling  of  your  womb  — 

Whom  you  would  love  but  do  not  know  how; 

Whom  you  would  hope  for  but  do  not  know  what. 

And  your  heart  is  sad  with  apprehension 

Knowing  not  why. 

[28] 


Or  are  you  thinking  of  the  little  ones 
And  your  little  daily  cares: 
Those  socks  that  you  washed  just  now  - 
They  are  far  too  torn  to  be  mended; 
Or  those  worn  out  shreds  of  underwear 
And  winter  coming.  .  .  . 

Here  they  are  back  from  school 
With  a  loud  ring  at  the  door  — 
"  I'll  open  it,  Ma." 


[29] 


PORTRAIT 

THIS  is  her  picture  hanging  on  the  wall, 

Above  the  mantelpiece. 

The  face  is  grave 

And  wistful  — 

Not  like  the  life  — 

The  eyes  are  much  too  moody, 

The  nose  too  thin, 

The  lips  too  firmly  set  — 

Too  pale; 

Also  the  chin  and  cheeks 

Too  sharply  curved, 

Not  full  enough, 

The  general  impression  rather  tame. 

Always, 

When  I  could  see  her, 

She  made  me  think  of  some  sleek  leopardess 

Pacing  the  desert  — 

Her  beauty  was  so  fiercely-fair. 

Peculiar  though, 

She  did  look  somewhat  changed—^ 

Wistful  and  awed, 

Just  like  this  picture  — 

The  day  she  died! 


[30] 


IN  THE  CIRCULATING  LIBRARY: 
SEWARD  PARK 

OUTSIDE 

It  is  hot  and  arid; 

And  the  sun  glares  down  upon  the  tall  tenements; 

And  the  tall  tenements  glare  back  into  the  park; 

And  the  little  park  lies  gasping  between  them, 

Thrusting  its  parched  trees  pitifully  to  the  sky  — 

Inside, 

In  the  oak  arm-chairs  by  the  windows, 

It  is  almost  cool; 

And  the  drawn  green  blinds  beat  back  the  insistent  sun-light 

Like  long  shields; 

And  the  rotating  fans  sting  the  air  into  motion 

Like  gigantic  bees; 

And  the  stacked  books  stand  loosely  in  their  shelves 

Leaning  lazily  against  each  other  — 

It  is  almost  cool  here  in  the  library, 

Cool  and  absorbingly  quiet, 

With  the  intense  quiet  of  a  thousand  dreams 

That  oozes  out  of  the  books. 

A  red-haired  librarian  with  starched  white  cuffs, 
Sits  at  a  table  marking  colored  cards, 
Red  and  white  and  green 
With  a  purple  pencil. 

[31] 


I  follow  her  fingers  as  she  writes 
Until  I  am  half  hypnotized  into  sleep. 

Strange,  strange, 

How  familiar  all  this  is  and  yet  how  strange  — 
The  walls  and  the  pictures  and  the  books  and  the  self- 
absorbed  faces  about  me  — 
Strange!  strange! 

There  is  a  boy  sitting  beside  me  at  the  window; 

His  back  bent,  his  head  lowered, 

Peering  at  the  book  in  his  hands, 

Through  rusty,  iron-rimmed  spectacles  — 

His  ears  are  outspread  and  huge; 

His  little  eyes  sparkle  feverishly  behind  his  thick  lenses; 

And  his  brow  is  knitted  intently. 

There  is  a  girl  standing  near  by, 

With  black  curly  hair  and  thick  drooping  lips, 

Leaning  heavily  against  the  tall  shelf  as  she  reads  — 

Her  eyes  are  gray  and  restless, 

And  her  lips  are  passionately  a-quiver. 

There  is  a  young  man  standing  beside  her  — 
Tall  and  lanky  and  long-haired; 
Casually  scanning  the  book  in  his  hands; 
Looking  up  from  it  from  time  to  time, 
As  if  waiting  for  someone. 

What  a  flood  of  memories  — 
My  brain  is  dizzy  with  them ! 

A  dark  girl, 
Ill-featured  and  pimply, 

[32] 


Sits  at  the  table  opposite  the  red-haired  librarian ; 

Her  long  nose  strains  upward  out  of  her  face; 

Her  shell-rimmed  spectacles  rest  back  against  her  cheeks 

like  cart-wheels; 

But  her  eyes  shine  from  under  them, 
Kindly  and  sweet, 
Like  sun-warmed  pools. 

Strange,  strange, 

How  familiar  all  this  is  and  yet  how  strange! 

There  is  a  boy  and  girl  talking  there  together, 

Beside  that  window, 

By  the  gray,  dormant  radiator  — 

Half-drawn  to  her,  half  afraid  of  her, 

He  fidgets  nervously  with  his  books, 

Looking  aside  as  he  speaks  to  her, 

In  long  jerky  sentences  — 

And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  soft; 

And  her  lips  are  pale  and  sweet; 

And  her  chin  so  prettily  pointed.  .  .  . 

Ghosts!  ghosts! 

Ghosts  of  my  old  selves  and  my  old  loves  and  my  old 

dreams  — 
How  I  know  you  all.  .  .  . 

Boy  there, 

With  the  Slavic  face  and  the  Jewish  soul; 

With  the  stubborn  nose  and  the  sensitive  mouth  — 

What  are  you  reading? 

Keats  or  Shelley  or  Swinburne  or  Browning  — 

Which  is  it  now? 

[33] 


Girl, 

With  the  passionate  lips  and  the  restless  eyes  — 

Are  you  reading  "The  Diary  of  Marie  Bashkirtseff  "? 

And  does  your  heart  ache;  and  does  your  soul  smart 

With  pride,  ambition  and  love  — 

Or  are  you  building  here  another  Lesbos, 

For  another  Sappho? 

And  you, 

With  the  homely  face  and  the  strong  sweet  smile  — i 

What  are  you  reading, 

George  Eliot  or  Emily  Bronte? 

Or  are  you  dreaming  of  Georges  Sand? 

And  your  heart  is  secretly  pleased, 

At  the  thought  of  the  genius  and  fame, 

That  will  bring  great  men  to  your  feet! 

And  you,  poor  youth, 

Searching  the  room  with  those  patient  eyes  — - 

I  know  for  whom  you  are  here. 

She  isn't  here  ...  it  is  late  .  .  . 

Someone  who  never  will  come.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  it  is  best! 

Boy-lover  there  by  the  window, 

Are  you  afraid  to  look  at  her  face, 

Lest  your  eyes  be  tempted  to  speak? 

And  yet  — 

Is  it  not  sweet  to  be  near  her; 

To  talk  to  her;  to  look  at  her  sidewise; 

To  blush;  to  stammer  unconcernedly, 

Art,  Economics,  Philosophy, 

While  your  lips  are  a-quiver  with  love! 


[34] 


Ghosts!  ghosts! 

Ghosts  of  my  old  selves,  and  my  old  loves  and  my  old 

dreams, 

Croivding  in  through  my  eyes  and  my  ears, 
Until  my  mind  is  a  haunted  house, 
Running  over  with  ghosts  — 
Until  I  feel  myself  like  a  ghost, 
Haunting  this  home  of  my  thoughts. 


[351 


LAMENTATIONS 

IN  a  dingy  kitchen 

Facing  a  Ghetto  backyard 

An  old  woman  is  chanting  Jeremiah's  Lamentations, 

Quaveringly, 

Out  of  a  Hebrew  Bible. 

The  gaslight  flares  and  falls.  .  .  . 

This  night, 

Two  thousand  years  ago, 

Jerusalem  fell  and  the  Temple  was  burned. 

Tonight 

This  white-haired  Jewess 

Sits  in  her  kitchen  and  chants  —  by  the  banks  of  the  Hud 

son  — 
The  Lament  of  the  Prophet. 

The  gaslight  flares  and  falls.  .  .  . 

Nearby, 

Locked  in  her  room, 

Her  daughter  lies  on  a  bed  convulsively  sobbing. 
Her  face  is  dug  in  the  pillows; 
Her  shoulders  heave  with  her  sobs  — 
The  bits  of  a  photograph  lie  on  the  dresser.  .  .  . 

[36] 


TIMES  SQUARE 

AN  August  day, 

The  eddying  roar  of  the  Square  — 

Crowds,  stores,  theatres,  tall  buildings 

Assaulting  the  senses  together  — 

And  suddenly, 

The  taste  of  an  apple  between  my  teeth 

Suffuses  my  mouth.  .  .  . 

Where  did  it  come  from?  — 

Strong  and  sharp  and  deliciously  sour, 

The  taste  in  my  mouth  — 

Where? 

I  cross  the  street 
And  suddenly, 

Crowds,  stores,  theatres,  tall  buildings, 
The  blare  and  the  glare  of  the  day 
Fade.  .  .  . 

October  blows  through  the  market-place 
In  a  town  of  faraway  Russia  — 
The  booths  are  laden  with  fruit.  .  .  . 
A  little  boy, 

Snub-nosed,  freckle-faced,  plump, 
Dressed  in  a  newly-washed  jacket, 
Stolidly  strolls  by  the  booths 
Clutching  a  coin  in  his  fingers  — 
[37] 


I  know  him, 

That  freckle-faced  boy; 

I  know  him. 

Proudly  he  passes  the  stores  of  the  Row, 

Ignoring  them  all  — 

Until  he  reaches  at  last 

The  booth  of  the  widow  Rebecca: 

"  What  do  you  want,  little  darling?  " 

"Here  is  a  penny; 

I  want  this  apple." 

"Take  it." 

The  tense  little  fingers  unclose  to  surrender  the  penny 

And  close  on  a  big  red  apple. 

And  suddenly, 

The  taste  of  an  apple  between  my  teeth, 

Strong  and  sharp  and  deliciously  sour, 

Suffuses  my  mouth.  .  .  . 

The  toot  of  an  automobile, 

Insistent,  shrill, 

Jars  me  back  to  the  Square. 


[38]' 


GHETTO  TWILIGHT 

AN  infinite  weariness  comes  into  the  faces  of  the  old  tene 
ments, 

As  they  stand  massed  together  on  the  block, 
Tall  and  thoughtfully  silent, 
In  the  enveloping  twilight. 
Pensively, 

They  eye  each  other  across  the  street, 
Through  their  dim  windows  — 
With  a  sad  recognizing  stare, 
Watching  the  red  glow  fading  in  the  distance, 
At  the  end  of  the  street, 
Behind  the  black  church  spires; 
Watching  the  vague  sky  lowering  overhead, 
Purple  with  clouds  of  colored  smoke 
From  the  extinguished  sunset; 
Watching  the  tired  faces  coming  home  from  work, 
Like  dry-breasted  hags 
Welcoming  their  children  to  their  withered  arms. 


[39] 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  READING  ROOM 

LITTLE  girl, 

Dreaming  here  in  the  library 

Over  a  volume  of  romance, 

Who  can  he  be  — 

The  Hero  of  your  dreams! 

Is  he  a  Knight  of  old  days, 
Stout-hearted  and  strong, 
Astride  on  a  steed, 

Breast-plated,  helmetted,  shield-on-arm,  lance-in-hand 
Charging  the  world  in  your  name ! 
Or  else  — - 

Does  he  kneel  at  your  feet  even  now, 
A  Boy-Prince, 
Blue-eyed,  curly-locked, 
With  ruddy  cheeks 
And  lips  as  sweet  as  your  own  — 
Asking  the  realm  of  your  heart? 
Or  else, 
Who  knows? 
A  King  perhaps  — 
Stern -eyed,  royal-browed; 
With  crown  and  sceptre  and  ermine, 
Sitting  in  state  by  your  side!  .  .  . 
Or  are  you  tired  of  unreal  reveries, 
[40] 


And  mould  him  in  a  modern  form  — 

A  statesman 

With  a  tongue  that  wakes  a  million  hearts; 

With  a  pen  that  guides  a  million  swords  — 

Leading  his  country  to  greatness! 

Or  an  Inventor  — 

Larger-souled, 

Working  not  only  for  a  single  selfish  nation, 

But  for  the  greater  Nation  of  humanity  — 

Liberating  Labor  from  toil. 

Or  else  — 

(Those  eyes  are  strangely,  dimly  deep) 

A  Poet  perhaps, 

Divine  in  his  love; 

Pouring  his  soul  into  mad,  magnificent  poems  — 

Eternal  as  time! 

Or  a  Musician 

A-thrill  with  melodies, 

Whose  passion  shall  mount  into  marvels  of  sound, 

And  storm  your  heart  —  and  the  world's! 

Or  a  Painter 

Who  will  glorify  that  brow 

And  those  eyes 

And  those  lips, 

For  all  the  world  to  behold! 

Or  a  Sculptor 

With  creative,  God-like  fingers 

Moulding  flesh  out  of  clay, 

Carving  beauty  out  of  the  struggling  marble.  .  .  . 

Or  else  — 

Who  knows? 

Is  he  sitting  here  — 

Even  here  in  the  library, 

[41] 


Across  the  table  — 

That  little  pale-faced  boy! 

Little  boy 

With  that  far-away  look  of  yours 

Sitting  here  in  the  library 

Over  a  volume  of  romance  — 

Who  can  she  be 

The  Lady  of  your  dreams?  .  .  . 


[42] 


JEAN 

GRAY-EYED 

Freckle-faced 

Jean  — 

Snub-nosed 

Chubby-cheeked 

Golden -haired 

Jean, 

Little  Jean 

With  her  big  gray  eyes, 

Spoke  to  me  to-day: 

"Aren't  you  queer! 

Why  do  you  look 

Into  my  eyes 

So  — 

What  do  you  see  in  my  eyes?  " 

Said  I: 

"  Little  Jean, 

Aren't  you  queer! 

Why  do  you  look 

Into  my  soul 

So  — 

What  do  you  see  in  my  soul?  " 


[43] 


AN  OLD  PICTURE 

FADED  and  rumpled, 
Under  a  cracked  glass  cover 
In  a  dirty  gilt  frame  — 
It  hangs  on  the  kitchen  wall 
Right  over  the  stove. 

A  music  room; 

Twilight; 

A  young  woman  sits  at  a  piano  playing; 

Three  little  girls  behind  her, 

Accompanying  with  their  voices  — 

One  of  them  gravely  directing. 

(The  picture  is  entitled  "  The  Trio.") 

The  window  of  the  room  opens  on  a  landscape  of  trees 

A  wood  or  a  park. 

Once  it  hung  in  the  parlor, 
With  a  companion  piece  — 
A  Spanish  girl  in  a  monastery 
Confessing  to  a  young  priest. 
That  one  was  burnt  in  the  stove, 
Long  since, 

After  being  shattered  by  a  fall. 
Now  "  The  Trio  "  hangs  alone. 

[44] 


I  remember  when  I  was  a  child, 

And  we  lived  on  the  fourth  floor  of  a  Cherry  Street  tene 
ment — 

I  used  to  get  on  top  of  a  chair, 
A  parlor  chair,  too  — 

And  look  through  the  window  of  the  picture, 
Far  out, 

On  the  melancholy  masses  of  trees 
Waving  under  the  twilight  sky, 
(I  didn't  like  little  girls  then  — 
Nor  big  ones) 

Something  stirred  me  as  I  looked  at  those  trees 
And  pervaded  my  spirit.  .  .  . 
When  mother  dusted  in  the  parlor 
She  always  wondered  why  that  chair  was  so  dirty. 
Then  when  I  became  a  long  lanky  boy, 
And  didn't  have  to  get  on  top  of  a  chair  — 
I  was  fascinated  by  the  dark-haired  little  director. 
I  was  reading  the  Waverly  Novels  then. 
How  many  day-dreams  did  I  build  about  her  — 
Clothed  her  (and  myself) 
In  all  the  enchantment  I  could  conjure: 
Fought  duels  for  her; 
Jousted  for  her  — 
What  not! 

Now  I  find  myself  looking  at  it  again, 
(It  hangs  on  the  kitchen  wall 
Right  over  the  stove) 
Wonderingly, 
Trying  to  understand  it. 
Who  is  she; 

That  young  woman  sitting  at  the  piano, 
Playing  so  sadly  — 

[45] 


I  swear  she  is  playing  some  sad  ditty! 

Are  those  three  cherub-children  hers, 

Or  just  that  dark-haired  little  director  — 

Or  is  she  a  music  teacher  perhaps, 

And  those  are  her  pupils.  .  .  . 

She  has  an  interesting  face, 

And  beautiful  hands  — 

I  wonder  why  she  is  watching  her  fingers  so  pensively! 


[46] 


ON  THE  STREET-CAR 

WE  were  alone  in  the  car  — 

I  and  her  soft,  black  eyes, 

Looking  blandly  at  me  from  the  opposite  seat. 

The  car  raced  along  the  tracks,  through  the  wide  street, 

Past  forbidding  porches  and  lit  store-windows  and  dark 

cross-streets, 

Stopping  at  some  of  the  corners  with  a  jar. 
The  rain  pattered  invisibly  on  the  dewed  windows  of  the  car, 
Denting  them  with  a  thousand  tiny  drops. 
The  lamplights  quivered  past  us  on  their  posts 
Shimmering  through  the  windows  on  either  side, 
Blurred  and  rayed. 
We  were  alone  in  the  car  — 
I  and  her  soft  black  eyes 
Wearily  vacant, 

Soothing  me  with  their  vacancy. 
I  found  myself  staring  into  her  mild  face, 
Wistfully, 

Seeking  for  something. 

Her  lips  caressed  me  with  their  calm  curves; 
My  eyes  cooled  themselves  on  her  pale  forehead. 
Like  a  long  needle 

The  electric  bulb  over  her  seat  pierced  into  my  eye-balls  — 
I  lowered  my  eyes, 

Resting  them  on  the  green  folds  of  her  skirt. 

[47] 


Her  hands  lay  loosely  on  her  lap. 

I  found  myself  staring  at  them, 

Envying  them  with  a  strange  envy. 

Something  choked  downward  in  my  throat  — 

Fell  heavily  upon  my  heart  and  lay  there, 

Like  some  corrosive  substance. 

My  head  tipped  forward  weakly, 

A  wild  wish  surged  giddily  through  my  brain, 

Pulling  me  and  pushing  me  to  speak  — 

She  is  a  woman; 

She  will  understand.  .  .  . 

If  I  could  only  sit  down  beside  her, 

And  hide  my  face  where  her  hands  are  lying, 

And  tell  her  all,  all!  ... 

And  cry  for  once  — 

Cry  out  all  the  bitterness  of  my  life, 

Cry  for  all  the  times  that  I  didn't  cry, 

Because  there  was  no  woman's  lap  to  hide  myself  in, 

No  woman's  face  to  bend  tenderly  over  me, 

No  woman's  voice  to  soothe  me  softly.  .  .  . 

To  cry.  .  .  . 

The  car  stopped  at  the  corner  with  a  reverberating  jar. 
She  arranged  the  green  folds  of  her  dress, 
Walked  up  quietly  to  the  platform, 
And  stepped  off  into  the  night. 


[48]' 


FROM  THE  THIRD  STORY  WINDOW 

THIS  is  our  backyard; 
Walls  and  windows  and  clothes  lines 
Wherever  you  look  — 
See 

How  the  sunlight  slants  across  the  topmost  bricks, 
On  the  opposite  wall 
Like  a  golden  triangle; 
We  don't  get  much  of  it  here, 
So  we  can  appreciate  it. 
You'd  be  surprised 
How  beautiful  this  place  can  look, 
At  night  — 

With  those  tiers  of  windows  rising  on  all  sides, 
Dark  and  secretive, 
Looking  at  each  other  queerly  — 

As  if  they  knew  what  was  taking  place  behind  the  blinds, 
But  chose  to  be  silent. 
When  I  come  home  late, 

And  go  searching  for  my  supper  on  the  fire-escape, 
(My  mother  leaves  it  there) 
I  like  to  sit  there  a  while 
And  look  out  into  the  yard. 
Sometimes  there  is  a  moon 
And  some  stars, 
In  that  square  piece  of  heaven 

[49] 


That  the  walls  cut  out. 

It's  a  little  piece  to  have, 

But  a  good  enough  sample  to  see  — 

People  are  spoiled 

Getting  the  whole  sky  to  look  at 

Every  time  they  choose. 

Mondays, 

The  clothes  lines  are  freighted  with  wash, 

Bridging  the  yard  in  long  white  files. 

It's  a  good  night  to  see  it. 

The  moon  can  look  wonderful  through  a  white  bed  sheet. 

It  lights  up  the  clothes  lines, 

Until  each  piece  of  wash  seems  to  clothe  a  ghost. 

Sometimes  a  wind  clambers  into  the  yard 

And  goes  blundering  among  the  wash, 

Blowing  them  into  billowy  folds, 

Twisting  them  together  clumsily. 

Even  in  the  daytime, 

It's  not  at  all  a  bad  place  to  look  at. 

It's  true, 

We  don't  see  much  of  sunset  here 

Or  sunrise  — 

But  you  can  watch  that  wedge  of  light 

On  the  top  of  that  wall, 

A  silver  spike  in  the  morning  — 

Lengthening  and  broadening  and  lowering, 

Until  it  reaches  the  fourth  story  windows. 

(That's  the  lowest  it  can  go) 

And  then, 

Mellowing  into  pale  gold, 

Softer  and  shorter  and  higher, 

Until  it  climbs  back  into  the  sky 

At  twilight  — 

[50] 


Then  the  yard  is  steeped  in  such  melancholy ; 

Such  an  absorbing  singing  sadness; 

It  makes  you  think  of  a  fond  woman 

Bidding  a  last  good-bye  to  her  lover. 

It's  so  infecting. 

It  oozes  into  the  windows; 

It  fills  every  room  — 

Until  the  walls  and  the  beds  and  the  tables  and  chairs, 

Just  swim  in  it. 

Even  the  prosaic  washtub  becomes  pensive, 

In  spite  of  itself; 

You  can't  escape  it.  ... 

Of  course, 

If  you  want  to  think  of  it, 

It's  a  foul  place  to  have  your  windows  open  on  — 

Full  of  dust  and  refuse  and  vermin. 

And  the  air  you  breathe  isn't  changed  very  often, 

In  this  four-walled  air  tank. 

But  what  of  that:  — 

Poems  are  not  made  to  live  in. 


[51] 


A  BED-ROOM  INTERIOR 

OUT  of  a  half -curtained  window 

The  bed-room  peers  into  the  yard, 

Three  stories  below. 

The  twilight  filters  through  the  window 

Touching  the  walls  and  ceiling  and  woodwork 

(All  white) 

With  moody  shadows. 

A  bed  stands  against  the  window  — 

Stolidly 

It  rests  upon  its  iron  posts, 

Lifting  its  broad  brass  head 

Over  pillows  and  beddings, 

A  ghastly  white. 

The  other  side  of  the  doorway, 

Facing  the  head  of  the  bed, 

A  tall,  panelled  closet. 

The  doors  are  slightly  ajar; 

The  hem  of  a  petticoat  peeps  between  them. 

In  the  opposite  corner, 

Cross-wise, 

Facing  the  foot  of  the  bed, 

A  dresser, 

(White  as  the  hem  of  the  petticoat) 

Mounting  a  big,  round  mirror 

In  two  curved  arms. 

[52] 


On  top: 

Brush,  combs,  hair-pins; 

Boxes  of  powder  and  cold  cream; 

An  ivory-framed  photograph;  — 

(The  portrait  of  a  young  man), 

Bronze  statuettes. 

The  mirror  of  the  dresser  is  covered  with  a  white  cloth. 

From  the  opposite  wall 

The  portrait  of  a  young  woman  gazes  into  its  covered  face. 

The  heavy  gilt  frame  is  draped  in  black  crepe.  .  .  . 


[53] 


A  FUNERAL:  ITALIAN  QUARTER 

SOMEONE  is  dead.  .  .  . 

Like  an  intermittent  wail, 

The  music  rises  at  each  corner, 

As  the  band  blares  out  the  strain  — 

Poignantly  rises  and  falls, 

Like  a  sharp-crested  wave 

Breaking  wearily  against  the  stone  tenements; 

Like  the  sigh  of  an  invisible  sword 

Cleaving  through  the  air, 

Up  and  down  — 

Someone  is  dead.  .  .  . 

Like  a  row  of  black  beetles 

The  coaches  crawl  after  the  bedecked  hearse, 

Through  the  narrow  gully  of  the  street,  banked  by  brood 
ing  tenements, 

Slowly,  monotonously  filing 

Into  the  boisterous  breadth  of  the  Avenue,  under  the  harsh- 
rumbling  Elevated  — 

The  coachmen  crack  their  whips  and  the  horses  strain  for 
ward; 

And  the  music  strikes  a  shriller,  wilder  key, 

Struggling  desperately  to  assert  itself  in  the  multi-mouthed 
tumult  — 

Someone  is  dead.  .  .  . 

In  the  garland-decked  hearse  he  is  lying  — 

[54] 


In  the  garland-decked  hearse,  within  the  carved  casket, 
Reposing  royally. 

Yesterday  he  was  a  hewer  of  wood  and  a  carrier  of  coal, 
Bending  under  his  endless  burdens  on  the  endless  stairs  — 
Now  he  is  riding  in  a  garland-decked  hearse,  within  a  carved 

casket, 

In  fine  linen  —  bathed  and  washed  at  last  — 
Guarded  by  four  angels  in  livery! 


[55] 


CROSS-STREETS 

I  LOVE  to  watch  them  as  I  pass  by  them  on  the  street-car  — 
Rambling  away  from  the  Avenue  between  blocks  of  tall 

tenements 

That  brood  over  them  from  both  sides, 
Like  old  market  women; 
Or   stealing   mysteriously  through   long   low   brown-stone 

blocks  at  night, 

Between  trees  and  porches  and  lamplights  — 
Lonely  lamplights  retreating  behind  each  other  on  their 

posts, 
Mingling  with  the  stars  where  the  dark  street  meets  the  dark 

sky; 

Or  lying  resignedly  at  the  bottom  of  gloomy  office-buildings, 
Or  stately  apartment-palaces  — 
At  twilight, 

With  the  last  remnants  of  sunset  for  a  background, 
Fading  moodily  in  the  sky; 
Or  at  noon, 

Spreading  lazily  between  sun-steeped  mansions, 
Long  and  wide  and  warm  and  bright 
Under  hot,  blue,  cloudless  skies; 
Or  at  early  dawn; 
Waking  from  sleep, 
With  the  red  face  of  sunrise, 
Glowing  behind  the  green  foliage  of  a  park 
Where  the  street  ends ! 

[56] 


A  CITY  PARK 


TIMIDLY 

Against  a  background  of  brick  tenements 

Some  trees  spread  their  branches 

Skyward. 

They  are  thin  and  sapless, 

They  are  bent  and  weary  — 

Tamed  with  captivity; 

And  they  huddle  behind  the  fence 

Swaying  helplessly  before  the  wind, 

Forward  and  backward, 

Like  a  group  of  panicky  deer 

Caught  in  a  cage. 

II 

AT  NIGHT 

I  wonder  what  they  are  whispering  about, 

These  lean  old  trees 

With  their  bent  heads 

Swaying  in  the  night-wind  — 

What  treacheries  are  they  planning  together, 

Nudging  each  other  in  the  dark 

With  gnarled  fingers; 

Scowling  at  the  sleeping  tenements 

From  under  their  great  brows 

So  ominously. 

[57] 


BEFORE  THE  STORM 

LIKE  a  petulant  child 

The  wind  railed  in  the  tree  tops, 

Tearing  aimlessly  through  the  foliage 

Pulling  plaintively  at  the  twigs, 

Shaking  the  branches, 

Fretfully. 

Like  mothers, 

Fondly-indulgent, 

The  old  trees  bent  their  heads 

Chidingly,  soothingly. 


[58] 


A  SUNLIT  STREET 

THE  City  lay  back  in  the  sunshine 

And  quivered  with  pleasure, 

Like  a  woman  in  the  arms  of  her  lover. 

Tenderly 

The  warm,  white  sunlight  kissed  her  cheeks, 

And  wound  itself  about  her  body, 

And  clung  to  her, 

Passionately. 

In  the  middle  of  the  street 
A  dead  dog  lay, 
With  blood-shot  envious  eyes, 
A-stare  at  the  sun. 


[59] 


A  SUNLIT  ROOM 

FROM  the  hot  blinded  street 

The  sunshine  overflows 

Into  the  whole  room. 

The  curtains  hang  stiff  and  taut 

As  the  yellow  light  sifts  through  their  white  lacework 

Turning  them  into  gold; 

The  window-panes  sparkle  with  delight  — 

Golden  are  the  ivory  keys  of  the  piano  as  the  sunshine  plays 

upon  them 

And  its  dark  mahogany  body  is  a  bright  red. 
Opposite 

The  chairs  stand  close  against  the  illumined  wall 
And  sun  themselves; 

The  peacocks  spread  their  tails  within  the  two  black  panels 
And  stretch  themselves  in  the  sun. 
On  the  marble  mantelpiece,  over  the  mock  fireplace, 
A  canary  trills  in  a  cage  — 
In  a  golden  cage  burnished  with  sunshine, 
Trills  and  twitters  and  hops  in  the  light 
As  her  throat  bubbles  over  with  joy. 


[60] 


BY  THE  WINDOW 

(FOR  H.  R.) 


That  photograph  is  not  you  — 
Nor  this  one; 

That  profile  does  not  bring  into  play 
The  massive  oval  of  your  face 
Full  and  firm  and  long  — 
Too  bad 

Cameras  cannot  reproduce  souls 
As  well  as  bodies; 
But  that's  the  trouble: 

Bodies  can  be  reproduced  but  souls  must  be  interpreted 
By  poets,  painters,  actresses, 
Like  you  and  me  — 
That's  Art! 

I  wish  I  were  a  painter  though; 
I  would  paint  you  right  now, 
As  you  sit  there  facing  me, 

In  the  broad  yellow  arm  chair  by  the  window  — 
Right  now, 

With  the  sunlight  streaming  eagerly  through  the  panes 
Kissing  the  bent  curve  of  your  neck; 
Striving  to  warm  the  black  masses  of  your  hair  into  gold; 
Putting  forth  passionate  arms  about  the  cool  green  folds  of 
your  dress, 

[61] 


As  if  to  embrace  you  — 

With  the  whole  Park  lying  behind  you  for  a  background 

Ten  stories  below  — 

The  Park  with  its  trees  and  the  vast  circumference  of  the 

Reservoir  in  the  center, 
Sparkling  in  the  sun, 
Like  a  round  blue  shield  of  steel; 
And  afar, 
The  length  of  the  City  stretching  on  the  other  side  of  the 

Park  — 
A  long  straight  line  of  mansions  zig-zagged  into  the  clear 

sky 

So  sharply  —  so  minutely  visible, 
One  would  think  it  to  be  an  architect's  model 
Or  a  toy-city  made  out  of  blocks. 
That  would  be  a  background  for  you 
After  Zuloaga's  own  heart  — 

Only  I  doubt  if  Zuloaga  could  have  painted  that  smile: 
Vast,  omniscient,  contemplative, 
Yet  bright  and  wholesome  as  the  sunshine 
And  sweetly  playful, 
That  floods  me  from  your  calm  face, 
Zuloaga's  portraits  do  not  smile  that  way. 
Somebody  else  would  have  to  do  it 
And  soften  into  depth 

The  firmness  of  that  mouth  and  the  fixity  of  those  eyes  — 
Even  as  Spring  softens  the  outlines  of  these  trees  below. 
Otherwise  you  would  be  merely  beautiful ; 
A  "  Greek  Goddess  "  as  the  dramatic  critic  calls  you  — 
I  don't  agree  with  him  —  at  least  I  don't  want  to, 
Being  a  Jew. 

I  prefer  Christ  to  Plato  any  time; 
Mary  Magdalene  rather  than  Helen  — 

[62] 


Even  Salome. 

I  always  think  of  Greece  as  being  soulless: 

A  beautiful  youth  playing  in  the  sun, 

Carelessly  happy, 

Taking  and  giving  love  lightly  — 

So  I  would  prefer  to  see  you  as  a  Jewess, 

Pale, 

Chastened  with  sorrow  as  the  Magdalene; 

Or  primevally,  orientally  passionate  as  Salome  — 

"  Give  me  the  head  of  Jokahnaan !  " 

I  surely  would  have  given  it  to  you  if  I  were  Herod, 

And  thought  it  well  worth  the  price 

To  see  the  Dance  of  the  Seven  Veils  danced  by  you. 

I  would  rather  see  you  as  a  Magdalene  though  — 

You  are  far  too  tall  for  Salome; 

Too  royal  looking  to  play  the  part  of  a  wild-cat  or  a  tigress. 

Magdalene  would  suit  you  much  better: 

A  big-souled,  big-bodied  woman  who  has  sinned  greatly 

And  suffered  greatly, 

And  capable  of  great  repentance. 

I  can  see  you  as  the  Magdalene 

Washing  the  feet  of  Jesus  — 

On  your  knees; 

Your  eyes  lowered  but  without  shame  — 

Washing  them  with  those  large  soft  hands, 

And  drying  them  with  the  thick  black  coils  of  your  hair; 

And  I  can  see  Jesus  looking  down  upon  you 

Filled  with  a  greater  awe  than  yours, 

Worshipping  you  as  you  are  worshipping  Him! 

The  Magdalene  would  suit  you  much  better  I  think; 

Have  you  ever  played  it  — 

I  wonder! 


[63] 


THE  HILL-PATH 

(FOR  E.  R.) 

TRUE, 

We  could  walk  up  the  hills  — 

One  can  see  ever  so  much  more  from  there  I  suppose. 

The  Bay  must  look  lovely  now, 

With  a  thousand  little  waves  lapping  this  yellow  light, 

As  the  grass  here  on  the  hillside. 

I  love  afternoon  sunlight 

Striking  grass  or  water  or  windowed  city-streets 

Such  a  soft,  pale,  melancholy  gold. 

Only  isn't  it  much  easier  walking  here? 

Sometimes  I  am  almost  satisfied  with  looking  at  hills, 

Instead  of  climbing  them  to  look  down 

As  one  should. 

Hills  are  so  uncertain; 

Always  beautiful  to  look  up  to  but  not  always  beautiful  to 

look  down  from  — 

There  are  so  many  things  one  can  see  from  them  — 
This  City,  for  instance, 
On  the  other  side  of  the  Bay, 
With  its  factories  and  tenements 

Skulking  back  of  the  piled-up  pinnacles  on  the  waterfront; 
Here, 

You  can  look  up  to  them, 
But  not  through  them  — 

[64] 


I  am  afraid  I  am  getting  symbolical; 

I  feel  that  way, 

Walking  in  Staten  Island  beside  you, 

Who  wants  to  go  up  the  hills  — 

These  low-browed  docile  hills  — 

You! 

Who  have  climbed  the  mountains, 

With  Ibsen,  Strindberg,  Hauptmann, 

And  all  the  Titan  thinkers  of  your  age. — 

And  looked  down  with  them, 

Into  the  dizzy  abysses  of  life  — 

Yourself  a  mountain -peak  of  Art! 

Yes, 

When  I  look  at  your  big  form, 

Broad-shouldered  and  generously  rounded, 

With  the  wide  jaws  narrowing  to  a  sparsely-covered  head; 

And  those  eyes, 

Firm  and  keen  and  greyish, 

Nestling  back  of  that  eagle  nose 

Like  eaglets  — 

Eyes  that  have  looked  on  so  much  from  their  perch! 

I  think  you  are  yourself  a  mountain 

Of  piled-up  hopes,  dreams,  triumphs  of  the  past, 

That  one  must  scale  to  understand. 

It's  easier  though  to  look  up  than  to  climb  up, 

And  it  may  not  be  beautiful  from  the  top 

Looking  down  — 

Still  .  .  . 

I'll  climb  with  you 

And  take  my  chance  on  the  view. 

Whatever  it  may  be  upon  the  surface, 

If  one  but  looks  deep  enough  into  truth, 

It  is  always  beautiful. 

[65] 


That's  Realism  I  take  it  — 

You  ought  to  know, 

Being  Arch-Realist  of  your  age. 

(I  love  your  phrase: 

"  Realism  is  but  a  broom, 

Clearing  the  stage  for  a  deeper  Romanticism.") 

So  let's  go  up  the  hills, 

Where  one  can  see  far  and  clear  and  deep, 

Tower  and  tenement  and  ocean  and  river  and  bay, 

And  Liberty  lifting  her  torch  from  the  Bay 

To  light  up  the  sky  for  our  eyes. 

It's  getting  darker  — 

Soon  she  will  be  lit  up, 

And  rise  from  the  water,  resplendently  tall, 

A  statue  of  silver  and  gold. 

I  like  her  much  better  now 

With  that  lonely  star 

Glittering  there  by  her  wrist  — 

Be  careful  where  you  walk  — 

Look  at  that  muddy  pool, 

With  its  deep-sunken  filmy  eye, 

Staring  out  of  the  side  of  the  hill, 

As  if  someone  lay  drowned  there. 

The  trees  step  back  from  it 

Avoiding  it  as  they  climb  the  hill  — 

It's  peculiar, 

How  the  trees  seem  to  climb  with  you  laboriously 

When  you  ascend  a  wooded  slope, 

And  step  down  with  you, 

Slowly  and  carefully, 

As  if  they  feared  to  lose  their  footing. 

Here  we  are  at  the  top 

At  last! 

[66] 


SOLILOQUY  OF  A  REALIST 

QUEER  — 

How  that  picture  bothers  me! 

I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  mind: 

That  tall-columned  portico  by  the  blue  Aegean, 

With  the  sea  framed  between  the  two  columns, 

And  the  young  witch  bending  there  over  the  glass  hemi 
sphere  on  the  tripod, 

Watching  the  reflection  of  a  sail 

On  the  horizon's  edge. 

"Circe's  Palace  "it's  called; 

I  think  she  has  bewitched  me  too  — 

Not  she  so  much  as  that  portico  of  hers, 

With  its  mysteriously-majestic  Ionic  pillars, 

Like  marble  oak  trunks  rising. 

Every  time  I  think  of  them  my  mind  slips  loose, 

And  sails  off  into  a  sea  of  vague  desires 

For  beautiful  unreal  things. 

Pictures  form  in  my  mind 

Of  such  fantastic  loveliness: 

Secluded  oak  groves  where  the  wind  whispers  fearful  ora 
cles  through  the  trees  — 

While  black-robed  priests  dance  together  in  the  moonlight 

And  gash  themselves  with  flashing  knives; 

Dark  lakes  a-shimmer  with  the  limbs  of  bathing  goddesses ; 

Vast  deserted  palaces 

[67] 


With  labyrinthine  corridors  and  long  silent  halls 

Where  footsteps  echo  forever; 

Cities  built  to  music, 

Whose  streets  are  susurras  of  song  — 

It's  so  tempting  to  let  yourself  go 

And  just  drift  away  from  reality  — 

Far  away; 

From  tenements  and  fire-escapes  and  backyards; 

From  squalor  and  poverty  and  pettiness  — 

Only  it's  such  a  hard  job  coming  back! 

The  more  I  think  of  marble  palaces  the  less  I  like  to  look 

at  these  tenements; 
The  more  I  wander  through  moonlit  oak  groves  the  less  I 

like  to  pick  my  way  through  these  pushcarts; 
And  those  creatures  there  — 
Swarming  busily  in  and  out  of  this  filth, 
Satisfied  to  live  and  to  breed, 
Like  fleas  on  a  carcass  — 
I  hate  to  think  I  am  one  of  them. 
Ah! 
How  different  those  great  white  symbolic-looking  columns 

are  — 

Speaking  and  singing  of  beauty  and  mystery  and  Greece! 
Of  days  and  years  and  lives  of  perfect  joy, 
Lived  like  poems  in  rhythm. 
But  then; 

Aren't  there  different  kinds  of  poetry? 
The  kind  that  I  have  been  preaching  to  myself  all  these 

years  — 

Where  does  that  come  in: 
"The  Beauty  of  the  Commonplace";  "The  Miracle  of  the 

Everyday";  "The  Universality  of  Art"? 
Are  these  just  phrases? 

[68] 


I  am  ashamed  of  myself  — 

I,  I  who  have  taken  Art  to  myself  for  lawful  wife; 

I  who  have  known  her  body  and  soul 

In  the  common  intimacies  of  wedlock  — 

To  be  talking  like  a  silly  lover, 

Serenading  the  lady  of  the  moon. 

Isn't  sunlight  on  those  rusty  fire-escapes  a  deeper  gold; 

Something  more  than  mere   sunlight, —  the  very   soul   of 
things 

Coaxed  out  of  the  iron? 

Is  that  ugly? 

That  dreamy-eyed  little  ragamuffin  urinating  so  contempla 
tively  on  the  pavement, 

Patterning  that  square  patch  of  sunlight  into  circles  and 
ellipses 

With  such  intense  absorption  — 

Or  is  it  — what?  .  .  . 

Everywhere,  always,  if  one  but  look; 

If  one  but  tear  the  callous  crust  off  one's  eyes  and  let  life 
shine  through  — 

Life  always  is  Beauty  and  Beauty  is  Life  — 

Keats  said  very  much  the  same  thing  if  I  remember; 

Only  there  isn't  much  trace  of  it  in  his  poetry. 

Well, 

I  don't  blame  you,  John  Keats. 

Some  people  don't  care  to  strain  their  eyes  that  way. 

You  need  steeled  sight; 

An  obstinacy  of  vision  that  melts  the  hard  edge  of  things 
like  compressed  fire 

And  fuses  them  into  beauty. 

It's  so  much  easier  to  make  it  up  yourself, 

Out  of  yourself  — 

Rather  than  to  wrest  it  out  of  stubborn  facts. 

[69] 


Of  course, 

There  is  a  recompense  for  the  harder  work; 

A  higher  beauty,  a  deeper  truth  — 

I  like  to  think  so. 

But  sometimes  — 

Sometimes  I  weary  of  it  so ! 

The  adjusting  and  reconciling  and  harmonizing  of  shrieking 

dissonances. 
Something  fails  in  me; 

And  Reality  breaks  through  like  a  jagged  rock, 
Coarse  and  hard  and  merciless. 
The  streets  cut  through  me  and  narrow  me  into  squalid 

alleys; 
The  tenements  crowd  into  and  divide  my  mind  into  little 

dingy  rooms; 
And  people  walk  up  and  down  through  me  with  unheeding 

feet 

And  wear  me  into  shallow  ruts, 
And  trample  the  delicacy  out  of  my  innermost  self. 
Then  I  want  to  divest  myself  of  Reality  as  of  a  dirty  shirt, 
To  give  up  the  dingy  rooms  and  squalid  alleys  of  my  soul ; 
And  retreat  into  a  world  of  my  own  making  — >. 
Deep,  deep  within ; 
Far,  far  away  — 
Yet  so  familiarly  my  own. 

A  world  by  the  blue  sea,  framed  between  Ionic  columns; 
Where  there  are  no  stunting  tenements,  no  narrowing  streets, 

no  pettif ying  cares. 

A  world  of  trees  and  temples,  peopled  by  immortal  youths 
Whose  duty  is  but  to  live  beautifully  all  their  lives; 
And  be  initiated  into  pagan  mysteries  day  by  day, 
By  the  skies  and  the  seas  and  the  winds  and  the  trees; 
By  the  sun  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  and  the  flowers 

[70] 


And  the  subtle-sensed  bodies  of  women  and  men.  .  .  . 

But  that  doesn't  last  long, 

And  proves: 

Merely  that  poets  are  too  lazy  to  live  and  think  at  the  same 

time; 

So  they  take  a  vacation  from  life. 
I  have  come  to  this  afler  much  thinking: 
Beauty,  rhythm,  harmony,  and  so  forth  — 
These  are  but  the  garments  that  life  tries  to  cover  herself 

with, 

As  artists  hide  themselves  behind  poems,  pictures,  sonatas. 
Only  through   rifts  in   the  beauty,  through   breaks   in  the 

rhythm,  can  one  see  her  wonderful,  dissonant  soul  — 
(Tragedy  or  comedy  we  call  it  when  that  happens) 
Therefore  a  good  motto  might  be: 
One  needs  a  keen  ear  for  dissonance  to  be  an  artist. 


[71] 


PASTEL:  FROM  THE  WILLIAMSBURGH 
BRIDGE 

SUBTLY,  swiftly,  mysteriously, 

Like  the  memory  of  some  wonderful  dream, 

The  sunset  fades  out  of  the  emblazoned  west  — 

Sinking  behind  the  massed  tower-peaks  of  Manhattan, 

Lower,  and  fainter  and  further. 

The  grey  sky  darkens  overhead, 

Turning  into  pale  green; 

Deepening 

Darker  and  darker  and  darker  — 

Until  it  is  one  vast  canopy  of  blue, 

Glowing  with  a  soft  satiny  sheen. 

A  purple  haze  gathers  in  the  air, 

Expanding  slowly; 

Settles  on  the  river  and  on  the  bridges  and  on  the  roof 

tops, 

Downward, 

Like  a  cloud  of  colored  smoke  — 
Smoothing  out  their  harsh  outlines; 
Harmonizing  them  into  dark  masses. 
One  after  another, 
Like  the  points  of  diamond  needles, 
The  stars  pierce  through  the  blue  canopy  of  the  sky; 
The  lights  of  the  city  come  out  to  meet  them, 
Soarkling  more  brilliantly  as  the  haze  deepens  — 

[72] 


Clustering  around  the  vague  outlines  of  the  buildings; 

Like  fireflies; 

Crowning  the  tall  heads  of  the  towers 

Like  tiaras; 

Stretching  in  gold  chains  across  the  river 

On  either  side  of  the  bridgeways. 

Dimly  gigantic 

Like  the  trunks  of  headless  Titans 

The  bridge  towers  rise  from  the  river  bed  — 

Steel-limbed  and  stone-footed 

Standing  astride  the  bridge. 

The  river  flows  between  them, 

Under  the  curving  sweep  of  the  bridges, 

Against  the  clustering  lights  of  the  wharves — • 

Heavy  and  sluggish  with  darkness, 

Like  a  black  marsh. 


•[73] 


THE  FIRE-GARDEN 

"  PM  just  going  down  the  cellar 

To  throw  a  few  shovelfuls  of  coal  into  the  furnace  • — 

Will  you  come  along? 

I  think  the  fire  is  low." 

He  flung  the  door  back 

Flooding  the  cellar  with  yellow  light 

From  the  gas-lit  kitchen. 

"Yes, 

Let's  go  down; 

It's  always  good  to  be  on  the  safe  side  before  going  to  bed, 

And  it's  going  to  be  a  cold  night." 

The  stairs  creaked  under  our  feet  as  we  stepped  carefully 

down. 

"  You  can  shut  the  door  behind  you; 
There  is  a  light  there  in  the  corner, 
I'll  just  turn  it  on  a  little  more." 
The  little  ball  of  fire  burning  out  of  the  gas-tip 
Lengthened  into  a  thin  long  jet, 
Stabbing  into  the  blackness  like  a  knife-blade. 
A  faint  draft  coming  from  somewhere  in  the  cellar 
Wrestled  with  it  for  a  while, 
Blowing  it  backward  and  forward. 
"  Haven't  you  ever  been  in  our  cellar  before?  " 
He  opened  the  furnace  door. 
I  stepped  back, 

[74] 


Tense  and  thrilled  — 
(You  feel  that  way  in  a  theatre 
When  the  curtain  lifts  suddenly  over  the  footlights.) 
"Well,  that's  splendid!  " 
Like  a  garden  of  fiery  flowers 
(Staged  in  a  theatre  or  painted  on  a  panel) 
The  red  mouth  of  the  furnace  glowed  in  the  darkness  — 
Red  and  white  and  gold  and  blue, 
A  hundred  little  flames  frisked  about  it  like  elves, 
Nodding  with  their  forked  heads, 
Tumbling  over  each  other  lightly, 
Swaying  in  a  rythmic  dance. 
"  It's  a  shame  to  spoil  this  thing; 
Don't  throw  any  coal  on  the  fire  now — > 
You'll  choke  it." 

"  Oh,  it'll  be  all  right  in  a  moment  — 
Fire  must  be  fed,  you  know." 
As  he  spoke 

He  thrust  his  shovel  into  the  coal; 

The  coals  came  clattering  down  from  the  top  of  the  heap. 
"  I  wonder  whether  they  heard  it?  " 
"Who?" 
"  The  dancers." 

"  It  hasn't  interrupted  the  dance  any." 
He  lifted  a  shovelful  of  coal 
And  swung  it  heavily  into  the  furnace  — 
The  fire  went  out  under  the  black  mass 
As  if  under  a  blow; 
The  garden  withered  into  pale  smoke; 
The  dancers  disappeared  suddenly. 
Then  another  shovelful; 
Then  another  — 

"Oh,  you've  choked  it  all  up!  " 

[75] 


"  It'll  be  all  right  in  a  moment; 

See—" 

Slowly, 

Regaining  consciousness, 

Blue  tongues  of  flame  clambered  out  of  the  coals  — » 

Darting  here  and  there 

As  if  looking  for  something; 

Meeting  together; 

Joining  hands  joyfully  — 

Then  red,  then  white,  then  gold, 

And  the  whole  furnace  was  aglare  again. 

"  There's  your  dance  again 

Going  on  as  merrily  as  before  — 

Come, 

Let's  close  the  furnace 

And  leave  them; 

There's  enough  coal  there 

To  keep  the  dance  going  all  night  — 

Did  you  ever  read  Poe's  'Masque  of  the  Red  Death'? 

"  Yes;  why?  " 

"  I  was  just  thinking  about  it." 

He  closed  the  furnace  door  with  a  bang. 

I  went  to  bed  that  night 

With  the  furnace  glowing  red  in  my  brain, 

As  it  glowed  there  in  the  cellar 

Within  its  iron  heart. 

Half  thinking,  half  dreaming, 

I  thought  of  the  dancers  dancing  all  night 

Among  the  fiery  flowers  of  the  furnace 

Unseen,  unheard. 

I  wondered  whether  they  were  really  happy 

Dancing  all  night; 

[76] 


Or  whether  they  just  pretended  — 

I  thought  of  the  coals  dying  of  their  own  fire, 

And  wondered. 

When  I  fell  asleep 

I  dreamt  that  I  was  sitting  in  a  theatre, 

Vast  and  dark  and  empty  — 

Watching  the  performance  of  a  mystic  play, 

Going  on  interminably,  invisibly, 

Behind  the  luminous  curtain  of  the  stage. 


[77] 


ON  THE  BRIDGE 

A-GLARE  with  electric  lights, 

Like  a  great,  luminous  bug, 

The  car  crawled  through  the  steel  meshes  of  the  bridge- 
way — 

Carrying  its  unheeding  passengers  with  it  through  the  night, 

As  if  on  some  mysterious  errand. 

The  passengers  packed  it  to  the  doors; 

Squeezed  between  each  other  on  the  benches  on  both  sides; 

Holding  to  the  worn  leather  straps  over  the  benches; 

Pressed  against  each  other  in  the  aisle. 

The  air  was  heavy  with  their  breath. 

Three  girls  in  shabby  red  coats  stood  chattering  together ; 

Gossipping  about  the  foreman  and  the  new   designer  of 
their  shop. 

A  dark,  slight  girl  and  a  spectacled  young  man  stood  un 
comfortably  face  to  face  — 

Their  bodies  crushed  closely  together; 

Their  eyes  evading  each  other  bashfully. 

A  bearded,  round-faced  man  sat  reading  a  newspaper 

With  square  Hebrew  print. 

The  car  quickened  its  motion  imperceptibly. 

Two  college  boys  sat  talking  together; 

Comparing  notes  carefully  on  the  last  biology  lecture. 

A  pale  tired-faced  girl  sat  beside  them  reading 

Some  yellow-covered  novel  by  Turgeniev. 

[78] 


Next  to  her  was  a  stout  girl  with  a  millinery  box  on  her 

knees; 

A  young  man  leaned  over  her  on  a  strap, 
Staring  hungrily  into  her  bulging  bosom 
Through  her  unbuttoned  coat  and  low  shirtwaist.  .  .  . 
Over  her  head, 

Through  a  clean  space  in  the  window, 
The  night  sparkled  like  a  crown  — 
River  and  city  and  sky, 
Set  with  a  million  jewels. 


[79] 


FROM  THE  JERSEY  BANK 

WEARILY, 

The  River  stretches  its  broad  breast, 

Northward  and  southward, 

Dozing  between  its  banks. 

Ferries, 

Lone-funneled  and  ugly 

Furrow  its  blue  surface  constantly  — 

Sending  up  black  streamers  of  smoke  against  the  hazy  sky 

Glowing  with  the  last  colours  of  the  sunset. 

Tug-boats 

With  engines  incessantly  clicking, 

Ply  busily  up  and  down  — 

Dragging  the  long,  heavy  barges  behind  them. 

Occasionally 

Stately  liners  pass  royally  among  them, 

Three-funneled  and  huge, 

Challenging  the  tall  towers  on  the  opposite  shore.  .  .  . 

But  the  River  ignores  them  all, 

Flowing  slowly  between  the  tall  towers  on  one  side  and 

the  tall  crags  on  the  other  — 
Slowly,  moodily,  reluctantly, 
Into  the  far-off,  inevitable  Sea. 


[80] 


NOVEMBER 


FEARLESSLY, 

They  thrust  their  dry  branches  against  the  sky; 

Long  since  the  wind  rifled  their  blossoms 

And  scattered  their  foliage  on  the  ground  — 

Now  they  stand  sternly  erect, 

Naked  and  strong, 

Having  nothing  to  lose. 

II 

They  strew  the  ground, 

Drifting  into  long,  shallow  banks, 

Piling  into  deep  red  mounds, 

Eddying  under  the  trees  — 

Aimlessly  — 

Long  since  the  wind  wilted  them  with  its  breath 

And  tore  them  from  their  twigs  — 

Now  they  are  free, 

Having  no  need  to  grow. 


[81] 


THE  NEUROLOGICAL  INSTITUTE 


A  TALL,  red  narrow-chested  building, 
Anaemic-looking  and  old; 
It  lifts  its  steepled  head  above  the  block, 
Fearful  of  its  own  height. 

II 

A  line, 

Men,  women,  children, 

(Alas  for  humanity!) 

All  in  their  Sunday  best, 

Hiding  a  hundred  ailments  under  their  clothes — • 

Pushing  and  jostling  and  shuffling, 

Wait  for  the  doors  to  open. 

in 

First  shall  be  last  and  last  shall  be  first ' — 
If  you  fellows  would  only  read  your  Bible, 
For  one  thing  you  wouldn't  be  pushing  like  that. 
Look  at  me: 
I'm  not  pushing, 

But  you'll  see  who'll  be  treated  first. 
Old  man?  .  .  . 
Who's  an  old  man? 

You  wouldn't  take  me  to  be  over  thirty,  would  you? 
You  better  not. 

Maybe  you  think  I'm  going  here  because  I'm  sick? 

[82] 


Certainly  not; 

This  place  happens  to  be  an  hour's  walk  from  my  house, 

So  1  take  a  walk  here  every  Wednesday. 

Don't  be  talking  so  much  against  the  rich  people,  young 

fellow, 

I'm  one  of  them; 
It's  beastly  cold,  though; 
Left  my  overcoat  behind,  by  a  mistake,  you  know." 


IV 


A  nurse  appears  in  the  hall 
The  doors  swing  open. 


Baldheaded  and  clean-shaven, 

With  folds  of  cheek  and  chin 

Like  a  well-washed  hog, 

He  sits  behind  the  railing, 

(How  many  years?) 

Quavering  solemnly: 

"  What  is  your  name? 

Are  you  willing  to  pay  one  dollar  for  your  examination? 

Where  were  you  born? 

How  old  are  you?  " 

His  face  has  set  into  a  questioning  stare, 

Eyes,  ears,  mouth, 

Interrogatively  wide. 

VI 

She  sits  beside  him 

Filling  the  cards  out, 

Collecting  the  money  from  the  patients, 

Snapping  alternately: 

[83] 


"  Find  yourself  a  seat, 

Doctor  or  treatment? 

Find  yourself  a  seat." 

Her  face  is  dried  and  hollowed, 

Her  lips  are  thin  and  bloodless, 

Her  voice  is  like  the  crackling  of  briars. 

VII 

A  steam-heated  hot-house 

With  souls  instead  of  plants, 

On  rows  of  chairs. 

If  all  the  pain  upon  those  chairs  would  speak! 

If  all  the  souls  within  this  room  were  bared! 

VIII 

School-marm  turned  nurse, 

Pretty  and  conscious  of  it. 

She  bosses  the  patients  about  like  little  children, 

Seating  them  here  and  there, 

Calling  them  constantly  to  order: 

"  Look  here,  you, 

I  want  you  to  stop  talking; 

Find  yourself  a  seat  — 

There  are  plenty  of  chairs  in  the  back; 

Heavens,  what  a  chatterbox! 

Can't  you,  please,  stop  talking?  " 

She's  pretty,  though 

From  the  tip  of  her  shoe  to  the  top  of  her  cap, 

Face  and  figure  perfect. 


How  strange  she  seems 
Standing  there  by  her  desk, 

[84] 


Tall  and  well-formed 
Like  a  stately  poplar, 
Amid  a  tropic  swamp. 

X 

If  those  lips  were  mine  to  kiss 
And  that  hair  were  mine  to  touch, 
And  those  breasts  were  mine  to  crush 
For  one  wild  moment  — 
I  could  half  forget  the  pain 
That  walls  me  out  from  Life. 

XI 

From  the  steaming  jaws  of  hell, 

Clear  and  sweet  and  sudden, 

A  child's  treble: 

"  Mamma, 

Why  does  that  man  wear  that  black  thing  over  his  eyes? 

Can  he  see  through  it? 

Look,  mamma, 

When  I'll  be  a  big  boy 

Then  could  I  walk  then, 

Like  when  we  used  to  live  in  Brooklyn? 

Yes,  Mamma? 

Then  I  could  go  in  a  shop 

And  make  ten  dollars  a  week, 

Like  papa. 

Wouldn't  you  be  glad  if  I  make  ten  dollars  a  week? 

I'm  tired,  Mamma, 

Why  doesn't  the  doctor  take  us  in? 

Maybe  he  isn't  here? 

Where  does  the  doctor  live? 

Does  he  live  here? 

[85] 


Mamma, 

Come  home; 

I  want  to  go  home, 

Come 

xn 

A  face  framed  in  black  curls, 

Restless  roaming  eyes 

Under  a  bulging  brow, 

Deep  set; — 

He  stabs  me  with  his  beauty, 

That  little  boy. 

His  mother  holds  him  in  her  arms, 

Listening  to  his  querulous  prattling, 

Blandly,  indifferently; 

From  time  to  time 

Chiding  him  in  a  low  voice, 

Readjusting  his  fretful  body  on  her  lap. 

Her  face  is  like  moulded  wax. 

XIII 

Rembrandt  Van  Rijn, 

God's  photographer, 

Artist-in-ordinary  to  His  Majesty,  Life, 

He  would  have  painted  them  well: 

This  "Mother  and  Child." 

Painted  them  just  as  they  sit  there 

With  all  this  crowded  clinic  for  a  background, 

He  would  have  called  it  with  divine  simplicity; 

"  A  Woman  holding  a  Boy  on  Her  Lap.'* 

XIV 

"  Charity, 
That's  what  they  call  charity. 

[86] 


First  they  keep  you  shiverin'  two  hours  outside, 

Then  they  keep  you  chokin'  two  hours  here. 

Look  at  that  woman. 

Is  it  her  fault  that  her  child's  paralyzed? 

Is  it  her  fault  that  she  hasn't  got  no  money? 

I'll  tell  you  what, 

If  she  had  money  she  wouldn't  be  waitin'  here  like  that 

With  that  kid  in  her  arms,  too. 

I  don't  care  about  myself,  I  tell  you. 

I  got  the  Fits  — 

Epilepsy  they  call  it; 

Got  it  ten  years; 

But  I  don't  give  a  damn  about  myself  — 

It's  the  kid  — 

Why  should  the  kid  have  tha'  mis'ry? 

It  ain't  done  anybody  no  harm; 

There's  somethin'  wrong,  I  tell  you." 

XV 

A  big  muscular-looking  man  of  about  forty, 

Long-faced  and  weather-beaten, 

With  fierce,  gray  eyes. 

Epilepsy! 

So,  he's  got  epilepsy. 

He  might  as  well  have  told  me: 

"  I  am  the  crater  of  Mt.  Vesuvius, 

Got  the  Eruptions,  you  know." 


XVI 


"  Been  going  here  long? 
First  time,  eh? 
Well,  you'll  see 
A  bunch  of  fakers. 

rtrn 


They  ain't  know  nothin' — nothin'  about  me  leastways, 

Give  me  some  dope  for  my  nerves! 

I  ain't  nervous  — 

I  drive  the  craziest  hunks  o'  horseflesh  in  the  town. 

Couldn't  drive  'em  a  block,  if  I  was  nervous. 

I  know  what  I  got  it  from  — 

Got  it  from  goin'  with  the  women  too  much, 

But  what  the  hell! 

I  ain't  gonna'  begin  to  go  to  Sunday  School  now, 

Too  old  a  buck. 

I  was  born  from  the  women  so  I'll  die  from  the  women. 

Whaddya'  say? 

There  goes  my  name  — 

Yes,  doctor  — 

Good-bye,  young  un." 

XVII 

On  the  nurse's  desk 

The  telephone  rings ; 

She  drops  her  work. 

"Hello, 

Who  is  that? 

Oh,  is  that  you,  Paul? 

I  had  forgotten  all  about  you. 

What  are  you  doing  with  yourself? 

Oh! 

Listen,  Paul, 

I've  heard  strange  rumors  about  you.  .  .  . 

Yes,  strange  rumors. 

Somebody  told  somebody  else  that  you're  going  to  marry 

somebody. 

You  heard  what  I  said,  alright. 
Well,  I'm  sort  of  curious  to  know.  .  .  . 

[88] 


Who? 

Me? 

What  do  you  mean  by  saying  that  to  me? 

I  have  half  a  mind  to  drop  the  receiver  right  now. 

No! 

Can't  see  you  to-night. 

Yes,  to  punish  you.  .  .  . 

It  all  depends. 

I'll  see  how  you  behave.  .  .  . 

Flatterer! 

I  said  you  were  a  flatterer. 

No. 

Because  I  don't  want  to. 

Did  you  really  get  the  tickets  already? 

I  don't  believe  you.  .  .  . 

What's  playing? 

It's  your  luck  it's  '  Lohengrin.' 

Listen,  Paul,  I'm  dreadfully  busy. 

Call  me  up  a  little  later, 

About  five. 

Yes. 

Good-bye. 

Don't  be  silly! 

I  said  you  were  a  silly  boy. 

Good-bye." 

XVIII 

She  picks  up  her  work: 

Filing  some  "  histories  " 

Looking  some  up  in  the  catalogue. 

Paul! 

I  wonder  who  he  is, 

Some  healthy  young  male, 

[89] 


Tall  and  good-looking 

With  a  good-looking  income 

Or  prospect  of  such. 

Paul, 

If  you  could  make  those  cheeks  rosier, 

And  those  eyes  brighter, 

And  those  hands  nervous, 

I  envy  you,  Paul! 

XIX 

So,  he's  my  fellow  patient  — 

That  idiot  boy  there, 

Staring  at  me  with  his  huge  glassy  eyes, 

Half  vacantly,  half  recollectively, 

Then  bursting  into  a  loud  chuckle. 

It's  he. 

XX 

He  lives  across  the  clothes-lines 

On  the  third  floor  of  the  opposite  tenement, 

Forming  the  rear  of  our  yard. 

All  day  long  the  yard  resounds  with  him  — 

Either  laughing  like  a  satyr 

Or  braying  like  an  animal  in  pain. 

He's  about  fifteen, 

Dark  and  hatchet-faced, 

With  a  moustache  sprouting  under  his  snout-like  nose. 

His  mouth  is  open  as  he  stares  at  me, 

Showing  two  rows  of  teeth. 

Disgustingly  foul. 

XXI 

A  girl  enters  the  room 
And  seats  herself  down  in  a  chair, 

[90] 


Just  in  front  of  my  own. 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face 

As  she  turned  to  look  at  the  clock, 

And  the  warmth  of  her  big  black  eyes, 

And  the  delicate  curve  of  her  nose, 

Stabbed  through  my  head  like  a  knife. 


XXII 


I  remember  a  January  afternoon, 

Cold  and  wet  and  foggy, 

When  we  strolled  through  the  snow-covered  Park. 

Her  arm  was  tight  in  my  own 

As  we  strolled  through  the  ghastly  lawns. 

"  Look, 

Isn't  it  wonderful?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  answered, 

Looking  aside  at  her  face. 

"  Do  you  know, 

I  love  the  Park  in  Winter." 

"  Yes,"  I  trembled, 

Tightening  her  arm  in  my  own, 

I  remember  a  January  afternoon, 

Cold  and  wet  and  foggy. 

This  was  my  June. 

XXIII 

I  am  tired  of  waiting. 

Life's  the  waiting-room  of  a  clinic 

And  I  suppose  the  doctor  is  Death, 

And   the   grave   must  be   behind   the   little   door   marked 

"  Private." 

I  think  I'm  going  to  faint; 
My  head  swims.  .  .  . 

[91] 


A  baby  tumbles  from  her  mother's  arms, 

On  the  hard,  stone  floor  — 

God! 

The  white  door  of  the  little  room  marked  "  Private  "  opens; 

A  man  in  a  black  suit  comes  out; 

My  name  is  called! 

XXIV 

"  What's  your  complaint? 

Pains  in  the  back  of  your  head? 

My  dear  boy,  how  do  you  know  it's  terrific? 

Don't  sleep,  eh? 

Is  that  so? 

Anything  been  happening  to  worry  you  lately, 

Any  affairs  of  yours  gone  wrong? 

Been  jilted  by  your  sweetheart,  perhaps? 

Nothing  of  that,  eh? 

Let's  examine  your  heart; 

Open  your  shirt  up, 

Way  up. 

More! 

Your  heart's  all  right. 

Are  you  leading  a  normal  life? 

How  about  your  appetite? 

Is  that  so? 

Take  these  pills  four  times  a  day, 

After  every  meal  and  at  bedtime; 

There's  nothing  the  matter  with  you  — * 

Nothing  organic,  that  is, 

Just  functional  nervousness. 

You'll  be  alright, 

Good-bye." 

[92] 


TO-DAY 


TO-DAY 

The  wind  goes  sighing  through  the  streets; 

Prowling  stealthily  into  each  open  door; 

Tapping  at  the  windows; 

Like  a  maniac, 

Searching,  searching  — 

For  what  it  knows  not! 

To-day 

My  soul  goes  sighing  through  my  heart; 

Prowling  into  old  familiar  corners; 

Treading  long-forsaken  byways 

And  looking  backward 

Fearfully  — 

Why? 


[93] 


THE  FIDDLER 

LIKE  Nero  of  old 

I  sit  amid  the  ruins  of  my  life, 

Fiddling  in  tune 

While  my  soul  is  on  fire  — 

Poet!     Poet!     Poet! 
Incorrigible  Poet! 


[94]' 


CROWDS 

CROWDS! 

I  am  shy  — 

Yet  I  love  crowds  — 

I  love  to  plunge  into  a  crowd  as  a  swimmer  plunges  into  the 

sea; 

I  love  to  feel  against  my  ribs  the  rough  pressure  of  life; 
I  love  to  push  and  be  carried  along  with  the  tide  — 
I  love  the  rude  shoulders  of  men. 

Crowds! 

I  am  a  dreamer  — 

Yet  I  love  crowds  — 

I  love  to  hear  in  my  soul  the  rhythmic  jar  of  existence; 

Only  in  the  crush  of  the  mart  can  I  build  my  dreams; 

Only  in  the  noise  of  the  street  can  I  find  my  songs  — 

I  love  the  harsh  voices  of  men. 

Crowds! 

I  love  crowds  — 

Yet  in  the  midst  of  them, 

I  am  lonely. 


[95] 


GROTESQUE 

CLEAVING 

The  darkness  of  the  night 

Two  spires  shoot  upward ; 

Two  spires  of  fretted  stone. 

Behind  them 

The  long  gray  body  of  the  great  Cathedral 

Squats  like  a  Beast. 

There  is  something  threatening  in  your  strength; 
There  is  something  sinister   about  your   strange  magnifi 
cence  — 

Grim,  gray  Beast! 

Is  it  the  ghost  of  dead  Faith  still  haunting  me? 
Is  it  the  power  of  old  spells  still  binding  me? 
I  have  seen  you  standing  strong 
Under  the  high  stars, 
And  revelled  in  your  might. 
I  have  seen  you  rising 
Coldly  —  clear 
Under  the  cold  moon, 
And  worshipped  your  beauty. 
Tonight 

This  beauty  is  an  apparition 
Challenging  me, 
Maddening  me, 

Defying  my  soul  with  its  strength. 

[96] 


Ah,  that  I  could  take  you  in  my  hands  and  break  yoa 

between  my  palms, 
Great  Beast! 

With  the  vehemence  of  my  hate 

Encircle  my  arms  about  you  and  crush  you  in  my  embrace. 
How  stolid  you  stand!  — 
How  insolently  calm, 

Buttressed  with  strong,  stupid  masses  of  stone, 
And  strong,  stupid  masses  of  soul, 
Tauntingly,  flauntingly  firm  — 
Beast!     Beast!     Beast! 
Gray-coated  Leprosy, 
Charnel-house, 
Urinal, 

Carved  for  the  worship  of  God 
Where  big-bellied  Bishops  and  Cardinals 
Empty  themselves  of  their  lies.  .  .  . 
Avaunt ! 

How  filthy  you  are 
With  putrid  odors; 
The    stench    of    decayed    superstitions    reeks    from    your 

haunches. 

Hypocrisy  shines  on  your  face  like  a  bloated  boil 
Ripe  for  the  scalpel  — 
Ah! 

If  I  could  only  prick  that  boil  with  the  point  of  my  pen 
And  squeeze  out  the  pus  with  some  forceps 
Exposing  the  sore, 
That  all  the  world  might  see  it 
Even  as  I  — 

How  loathsome  you  are! 

The  poisonous  breath  of  your  mouth  corrupts  the  air 
Like  a  pestilence. 
I  choke, 

[97] 


I  faint  with  its  fumes, 

I  fall,  fall,  fall  — 

Endlessly, 

Into  the  torpor  of  death, 

Into  the  horror  of  hell  — 

Endlessly.  .  .  . 

Beast!     Beast!     Beast! 

Gray  Beast  with  the  ravenous  maw 

Devouring  my  soul, 

Avaunt  —  Avaunt ! 


[98] 


A  CLUMP  OF  PINES:  MOUNT  MORRIS 
PARK 

LIKE  swarthy  young  gods 

The  pines  rise  from  the  sloped  forehead  of  the  hill; 

Looking  upward  over  its  bald  top 

Into  the  downward  curving  sky 

That  frames  it  in  a  blue  infinity. 

Behind  them 

The  trees  straggle  up  the  hillside 

With  naked  branches  waiting  to  be  budded  — 

Impatient  of  Spring. 

Wantonly, 

The  birches  spread  their  white  limbs  in  the  sunshine; 

The  poplars  sway  with  tender  passion; 

The  young  oaks  stand  taut  with  desire. 

Behind  them 

The  lawns  lie  bellied  out  under  the  sunshine  — 

Each  faded  grass-blade  impregnated  with  new  life. 

Children  play  on  the  walks. 

Full-bosomed  young  mothers 

With  moist  breasts  crushed  under  their  coats 

Sit  on  the  benches  beside  the  baby-carriages. 

At  the  bottom 

The  City  spreads  like  a  besieging  army, 

Petrified  into  massed  blocks  —  manacled  by  long  streets 

As  it  surged  forward. 

[99] 


The  houses  glare  impotently  at  the  hill 
Out  of  their  sun-dazzled  eyes. 

The  churches  lift  up  their  steeples  among  them  like  stand 
ards. 

But  the  pines  rise  in  their  fenced  copse  on  the  hill-side 
Solemnly  apart  — 

Over  the  massed  houses  and  challenging  steeples; 
Over  the  warm  placid  lawns  and  restless  spring-stirred  trees; 
Standing  as  in  a  sacred  grove, 
And  looking  fixedly  over  the  hill 
Into  the  infinite  abysmal  blue. 


[100] 


ON  A  PARK  BENCH 

UNDER  the  green-bosomed  chestnuts  bulging  into  the  drive 
way 

She  sat  there  — 

Big-bodied  and  immobile  as  the  trees; 

Ripening  in  the  warm  insinuating  sunshine 

Like  a  huge  plant. 

Feverishly 

The  automobiles  hurried  after  each  other  before  her  vacant 
unheeding  eyes  — 

Sparkling  into  view  like  sudden  suns 

And  darkening  out  of  sight. 

Like  a  moving  tapestry 

The  equestrians  swept  after  each  other  across  the  drive  — 

Shining  brown  haunches,  polished  black  boots  gleaming 
through  the  leaves. 

The  birds  darted  through  the  sunlight  like  fishes 

Riddling  it  with  a  million  melodious  trills. 

She  sat  there 

Rooted  to  the  bench, 

Feeling  only  the  bulging  mystery  in  her  womb, 

Dull-eyed  and  grandly  immobile, 

Growing  with  the  green  lawns  and  the  silent  sap-veined 
trees. 


[101] 


THE  PLAY  POND:  CENTRAL  PARK 

UNDER  the  dazzling  sweep  of  sun-burnished  blue  skies 

The  pond  blinks  between  the  recumbent  hills, 

Rippling  ceaselessly  away 

From  the  whirlpool  of  white  fire 

Flaming  on  the  further  side. 

Saturated  with  light 

The  trees  climb  down  the  bent  backs  of  the  hills 

With  drooping  heads  and  faint  limbs  — 

Pale  from  the  weariless  lust  of  the  sun 

Like  raped  women. 

Out  of  its  great  round  eye 

The  pond  gapes  piteously  at  the  trees. 

Like  a  quarry  seeking  shelter, 

In  frantic  ripples 

It  scurries  under  the  explosive,  blinding  sparkle 

Groping  at  its  planked  rim, 

With  little  lapping  tongues  — 

But  the  trees  are  far  and  helpless 

Ravished  with  sunlight 

And  the  hot,  hard  planks  are  merciless  as  the  sun. 

Nearby 

Across  the  scorched  backs  of  the  hills 

The  mansions  sit  back  comfortably  on  the  broad  sidewalk 

of  the  Avenue  — 
With  well-shaded  eyes 

[102] 


Watching  the  tortured  pond  struggling  under  the  glare 

Like  a  pinned  butterfly. 

On  the  green  benches  ranged  around  the  pond 

Women  sit  in  white  groups  — 

Reading,  knitting; 

With  lowered  eyelids 

Evading  the  blazing  pond. 

Beside  the  rim  of  the  pond 

A  red-haired  little  boy  squats  on  his  brown  chubby  hands 

With  eager  lips  and  unblinking  blue  eyes, 

Watching  a  wilful  breeze  driving  his  toy  schooner, 

Against  the  feverish  ripples  fleeing  from  the  fire  — 

Cruelly,  swiftly, 

Into  the  heart  of  the  flaming  whirlpool. 


[103] 


THE  DESERTED  CHURCH 

IT  has  stood  that  way  for  years, 

Awesomely  empty  — 

A  flat-roofed  lumbering  structure  in  the  shape  of  a  half 

cross, 

Jutting  out  of  the  block  at  the  corner  of  two  busy  avenues; 
The  long  head  of  the  cross  stretching  towards  the  street 
With  a  sign  on  the  door  telling  passers-by  it  is  for  sale; 
The  two  arms  receding  awkwardly  into  the  block. 
Weed-covered  grounds  — 
One  boasting  of  a  tree  — 
Flank  the  long  head  of  the  cross 
On  either  side. 
Windows, 
Tall,  narrow  slits 
With  broken  panes  and  curved  tops, 
Stare  gravely  into  the  ground  like  owls  — 
The  building  stands  there  like  a  tomb 
Deserted  of  its  God. 

I  pass  it  sometimes  on  my  way  to  the  library, 
At  night 

When  gray  clouds  sail  over  its  flat  roof  like  shrouded  souls, 
And  the  yellow  moon  shines  down  from  among  the  clouds, 
On  its  bare,  brown  walls, 
Through  its  tall,  dilapidated  windows, 
On  the  gaunt  spare-branched  tree. 

[104] 


Then  I  am  almost  afraid  of  it  — 

I  am  afraid  of  the  God  that  is  haunting  His  old  home.  .  .  . 

If  I  were  bold  enough  to  climb  over  that  fence 

And  steal  up  close  to  one  of  those  windows, 

And  look  through  its  broken  panes  — 

I  think  I  would  see  Him  sweeping  up  and  down  the  chancel, 

Seeking  vainly  for  His  old  worshippers, 

Listening  vainly  for  the  blessed  sound  of  the  Mass, 

Forever  hushed  — 

Yes, 

God's  ghost  is  haunting  this  gloomy  church  — 

I  am  afraid  of  it! 

Soon, 

An  enterprising  Jew  will  buy  up  the  property, 

And  turn  it  into  a  moving-picture  house  — 

(Jews  are  not  afraid  of  God  because  they  created  Him.) 

"The  Vitagraph  Palace"  or  "  The  Art  Motion  Pictures" 

or  "  The  Lee  Avenue  Theatre  "  or  some  other  name 
Will  glare  in  electric  letters  over  the  door; 
Signs  and  posters  all  around  the  building  will  tell  the  public 

what  is  playing. 
At  night, 
Sweethearts  from  the  cosmopolitan  neighborhood  will  sit 

together  in  the  aisles, 

Playing  secretly  with  each  other's  hands  in  the  dark, 
Flirting  together  in  a  dozen  different  languages, 
While  the  hero  and  heroine  make  love  to  each  other  on  the 

screen, 

Where  once  the  altar  stood. 
Gayety  and  pleasure  shall  crowd  into  every  nook  of  the 

church, 

And  God's  ghost  shall  be  driven  out. 

[105] 


MY  BELOVED 

AT  night 

When  I  am  asleep, 

My  Beloved  comes  to  me 

And  falls  upon  my  breast 

And  caresses  me  — 

Calls  me  her  Poet,  her  Artist,  her  Soul; 

Calls  me  her  Genius,  her  Saviour,  her  God 

I  crush  her  in  my  arms 

And  kiss  her 

And  hite  her 

Amorously  — 

I  may  not  hint  at  half  the  joy  we  have; 

I  may  not  tell  of  half  the  love  we  share; 

At  night! 

In  the  daytime 

I  sit  beside  her, 

Sometimes, 

And  talk  to  her 

Bashfully 

About  all  sorts  of  things  — 

Literature,  Art,  Philosophy 

She  listens, 

Sometimes  — 

I  am  a  very  queer  fellow 

She  thinks. 

[106] 


A  BROOKLYN  BY-STREET 

Two  straight  rows  of  low  brick  buildings  — 

Interminably  red,  interminably  neat,  interminably  double- 
storied  ; 

Fronted  with  the  same  brown  porches  and  the  same  small 
grass  plots, 

Stare  at  each  other  across  the  street, 

Placidly, 

Out  of  a  hundred  windows. 

Automobiles 

Race  between  them  intermittently; 

Delivery-wagons 

Rattle  by  from  the  markets 

Stopping  at  some  of  the  porches; 

A  boy  alights  from  a  wagon 

Carrying  a  parcel  — 

He  is  tall  and  freckle-faced  — 

A  girl  in  a  white  dress  is  sitting  on  one  of  the  porches, 

Reading  a  yellow-bound  book.  .  .  . 

I  wonder  what  she  is  reading  — 

A  story  or  an  essay  or  a  poem, 

A  novel  or  a  play! 

I  think  she  is  reading  a  poem: 

Her  eyes  are  so  open  and  restless, 

Her  lips  are  so  languidly  pensive  — 

I  am  sure  she  is  reading  a  poem. 

[107] 


If  I  wanted 

I  could  walk  up  that  porch  and  speak  to  her. 
I  know 

She  wouldn't  mind  it. 

I  would  walk  up  those  steps  and  say  to  her,  smilingly: 
"Pardon  me  ...  but  ... 
May  I  ask  you  — 
What  are  you  reading?  " 
(I  can  almost  see  her, 
Lifting  her  face  from  the  book, 
Startled  somewhat!) 

"  Some  poetry.  .  .  .  Swinburne's  ....  my  favorite." 
"  Mine,  too." 
"  Do  you  like  him?  " 
"I  love  him; 

He's  a  wonderful  wizard  of  words !  " 
And  .  .  . 

"  Did  you  read  his  '  Garden  of  Proserpine  '?  " 
"  I  was  reading  it  now  for  the  twentieth  time  — 
I'm  crazy  about  it !  " 
And  ... 

"  Did  you  read  them?  — 
Laus  Veneris,  Dolores,  Fragoletta,  Faustine, 
Anactoria,  Hertha,  Aholibah,  Thalassius?  " 
"All!" 

"  What  marvellous  word -woven  tapestries  all ; 
What  palaces  builded  of  sound, 
Oriental,  Ionic  and  Gothic; 
In  color,  melody,  rhythm, 
In  power  and  passion  of  words, 
There's  no  one  like  Swinburne!  " 
And  ... 

"  Do  you  remember  the  opening  chorus 

[108] 


In  '  Atalanta  in  Calydon  '? 

A  Greek  might  have  written  it  — 

(Apologetically) 

You  see, 

I  know  these  things 

Being  a  poet  myself  — " 

"A  poet! 

You?  " 

And  ... 

If  I  wanted 

I  could  walk  up  those  steps  and  speak  to  her 

All  this  and  much  more  .  .  . 

But  something 

Out  of  a  hundred  hooded  windows 

Staring  complacently  — 

Cowes  me  and  drives  me  away 

Abashed. 

I  wonder  what  she  is  reading!  .  .  . 


[109] 


NOCTURNE:  FIFTH  AVENUE  AND 
CENTRAL  PARK 

THE  omnibus  moved  joltingly  up  the  Avenue 

Double-storied  and  top-heavy; 

Shaking  the  drowsy  passengers  on  the  roof, 

Sideward  and  forward. 

The  sky  curved  over  us  like  a  dim  dome, 

Moonless  and  murky, 

Indefinitely  deep. 

A  few  stars  struggled  out  of  the  thick  mists 

And  followed  us. 

On  one  side  slept  the  Park  — 

A  long,  black  mass  of  trees, 

Facing  the  Avenue  and  melting  backward  into  the  blacker 

sky. 
On   the   other   side   stretched   the   white   mansions   of   the 

Avenue, 

With  blinds  pulled  down  and  curtains  drawn  close, 
Big  and  empty  looking. 

The  omnibus  moved  joltingly  up  the  Avenue. 
Tall,  curved  lamp-posts, 

With  great  electric  globes  bulging  from  their  bent  heads, 
Challenged  us  on  either  side  like  sentinels. 
The  Avenue  stretched  endlessly  before  us, 
Shining  under  their  white  glare, 
Like  a  moonlit  river. 

[110] 


WINTER  NOCTURNE:  THE  HOSPITAL 

A  MASS  of  ledged  rock 

Steep  and  brown  and  long 

Ribbed  with  white  streaks  of  snow 

Rises  up  suddenly  from  among  level  blocks  of  tenements, 

Lifting  the  red  hospital  buildings  on  its  top, 

Higher 

Over  the  huddled  heads  of  the  tenements 

Over  the  uncoiled  length  of  the  Elevated 

Up  to  the  very  disc  of  the  moon. 


[mi 


AFTER  THE  LECTURE 

I  AM  sick  of  believing  and  disbelieving  — 

Cults  and  creeds  and  systems  of  thought; 

Philosophy,  Morality,  Cosmology,  concern  me  no  more  — 

Let  the  eternal  verities  go  to  the  dogs! 

Enough  has  been  prattled  about  them  — 

Aristotle,  Socrates,  Plato; 

Fichte  and  Hegel  and  Schelling  and  Kant. 

It  is  all  so  simple  to  me  — 

I  know  it  is  Good  to  be  out  under  the  stars  tonight, 

And  Evil  to  be  pent  up  in  a  sultry  lecture  room. 

I  know  it  is  Good  to  be  walking  beside  you,  dear, 

And  Evil  of  you  to  be  philosophising  so  much. 

I  know  it  is  Right  to  put  my  arms  around  you  and  kiss  you, 

And  Wrong  of  you  to  deny  me  that  kiss. 

As  to  who  made  this  ramshackle,  top-heavy  Universe, 

Dear  little  girl, 

Let  God  have  the  credit. 


[112] 


NOCTURNE:  CENTRAL  PARK 

THE  snow  soughed  ceaselessly  through  the  air 

In  long  thin  threads  like  rain, 

Ceaselessly,  softly  descending, 

On  the  white  sheeted  trees  with  their  freighted  branches 

Bending  under  the  full  moon; 

On  the  undulating,  creamy  lawns 

Glistening  in  the  moonlight; 

On  the  frozen  surface  of  the  Pond 

Gleaming  from  behind  the  trees 

Like  a  sheet  of  lacquered  silver. 

Clouds, 

Big-bellied  and  fluffy 

Like  great  grey  whales 

Sailed  across  the  blue  arch  of  the  sky. 

Brushing  against  the  round  disk  of  the  moon, 

Putting  out  the  stars  in  their  path 

Like  sputtering  matches  — 

Only  die  moon  shone  steadfastly  in  the  sky 

Like  a  lighthouse  set  among  the  clouds, 

We  stood  together. 
Made  one  in  each  other's  arms  — 
Under  the  low-bending  branches  of  the  sheered  trees, 
Under  the  gray-dappled  moonlit  sky  — 
Her  eyes  shone  through  me  like  two  moons 

[113] 


Lighting  up  strange  vistas  within  my  brain; 

Her  soft  cheek  pressed  warmly  against  my  own; 

A  stray  wisp  of  black  hair  fell  from  under  her  hat, 

Caught  between  my  lips,  and  filled  my  nostrils  with  an 

odor  of  crushed  flowers  — 
And  the  snow  soughed  coolingly  on  our  hot  faces. 


[114] 


SPRING  TRYST 

WHAT  shall  I  say  to  her  first, 

As  she  comes  tripping  to  meet  me, 

Here  at  our  tryst  in  the  Park  — 

Comes  with  her  wide  hat  aslant 

And  her  brown  eyes  glowing  beneath  — 

What  shall  I  say  to  her  first! 

Shall  I  put  on  a  piteous  face 

And  pout: 

"  I  have  waited  so  long; 

The  birds  taunted  me  from  the  tree-tops  as  I  stood  here;- 

Chirping  two,  two,  two,  two,  two, 

Silly,  silly,  silly,  silly  boy, 

She  will  never  come  —  she  will  never  come  — 

See,  you  naughty  birds, 

She  has  come!  " 

Or  shall  I  look  tenderly  at  her: 

"  You  are  tired,  dear; 

Sit  down  .  .  . 

What  a  sweet  dress  you  have  on  to-day; 

It  goes  so  well  with  the  Spring, 

The  rose  on  your  cheeks  and  the  green  on  your  dress; 

Only  what  shall  we  do  with  your  eyes  — 

They  are  so  brown!  " 

Or  shall  I  let  my  joy  free, 

[115] 


Caged  in  my  throat  like  a  bird: 

"  Darling, 

At  last  — 

I  am  so  happy! 

All  night  I  was  wakeful  thinking  about  you, 

And  my  heart  kept  ticking  the  seconds; 

I  am  so  happy,  so  happy  — 

I  think  I  could  fly!  " 

Or  shall  I  take  her  hand, 

Gently, 

And  lead  her  down  to  the  pond: 

"  Do  you  remember  the  time  we  stood  here  — • 

Here,  under  the  very  same  trees, 

When  the  trees  were  sheeted  in  snow, 

And  the  pond  was  frozen  across, 

And  the  wind  bit  into  our  faces  — 

You  jested: 

'  Do  you  know  — 

We  ought  to  draw  up  a  petition  to  the  Spring, 

All  lovers, 

And  ask  him  to  hurry  this  way!  ' 

Do  you  remember?  "... 

Or  shall  I  not  say  anything  at  all  to  her, 

But  clasp  her  in  my  trembling  arms, 

And  speak  to  her  lips  and  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  and 

her  brow  — 
Where  shall  I  kiss  her  first! 


[116] 


AT  THE  FLORIST'S 

THROUGH  the  big  show  window  on  the  Avenue, 

The  flowers  called  to  me  as  I  stopped  — 

Piping  and  chirping  and  singing  in  a  dozen  different  colors, 

Like  a  tree-top  of  bright-plumaged  birds: 

"  Take  me  to  her,  bring  me  with  you,  choose  me  for  her; 

I  am  sweet,  I  am  sweeter;  but  I  am  more  beautiful,  but  I 

am  more  graceful." 

I  looked  recollectively  through  the  frosted  glass. 
"  You  are  familiar  to  me,"  said  I  to  a  little  red  flower  who 

was  louder  than  the  rest  — 
"Aren't  you  a  jasmine?  " 
"Oh!  "  trilled  the  little  red  flower  impatiently  through  her 

creamy  throat, 
"  Only  a  month  ago  she  passed  here  with  you  and  told  you 

my  name  — 
Take  me  along  with  you  and  I'll  forgive  you  for  being  so 

stupid." 
"Take  us  too,"  breathed  a  cloud  of  white  flowerets  in  a 

corner  — 

"  Don't  you  remember  us? 

That  time  ...  on  the  Palisades  ...  in  June.  .  .  . 
She  passed  her  fingers  through  our  stems  to  show  us  to 

you,  and  we  glittered  on  them  so  — 
Like  seed  pearls,  you  said." 
"And  me  — 

[117] 


Don't   you   remember   me?  "   said   a   little   yellow   flower 

naughtily. 
"  She  pinned  me  near  her  bosom  that  time,  and  you  crushed 

me  there  with  your  kisses." 
I  blushed. 
"I  —  I  remember  something  like  that,  but  I  can't  think  of 

your  names. 

You  see  .  .  .  one  sees  you  so  seldom  in  the  city.  .  .  . 
Please  excuse  me  this  once; 
When  she  gets  well  I'll  — 
And  who  are  you?  "  turned  I  to  a  big  crimson  flower  that 

interrupted  my  eye. 
"  Never  mind  my  name,"  answered  she  drawing  herself  up 

haughtily  on  her  tall  stem, 
"  You'd  forget  it  anyway  if  I  told  you  — 
Take  me  with  you  and  she  will  know." 
"  Please  take  me  to  her,"  pleaded  a  little  blue  flower  in  a 

crowd  of  ferns. 

"  She  never  pointed  me  out  to  you,  but  I  love  her  so  much; 
Take  me  along  with  you  and  make  me  happy  — 
I  will  look  so  beautiful  in  her  hair!  " 
"  I  am  truly  sorry,"  confided  I  to  the  little  blue  flower  as 

I  walked  away  — 
**  I  have  only  a  dime  for  carfare  and  can't  buy  any  of  you 

for  her  — 
But  I  will  put  you  all  in  a  poem  and  read  it  to  her." 


[118] 


A  POSTSCRIPT 

DEAREST! 

When  I  pressed  you  to  my  heart  that  time 

And  the  impatient  engine  drowned  our  last  good-bye 

I  walked  back  through  the  station, 

Dizzy, 

Because  of  the  kiss  I  carried, 

Poised  tremulously, 

Like  a  bird  upon  my  lips. 

Breathless, 

Lest  my  breath  blow  it  off; 

Fearful, 

As  one  who  bears  a  fragile  treasure  home; — 

I  walked  back  through  the  crowded  staring  station 

Into  the  crowded  staring  street, 

With  moist  half-open  lips  — 

Until  the  shy  bird  spread  her  wings 

And  flew  within  for  shelter, 

Making  my  heart  flutter  with  her  wings. 


[119] 


NOCTURNE 

(FOR  H.  R.) 

As  we  walked  there  by  the  park-wall 

The  moon  went  with  us  all  the  way, 

Shining  from  behind  the  trees 

Big  and  round  and  yellow  — 

Like  a  Chinese  lantern 

Dangling  from  the  dark  sky 

By  some  invisible  thread; 

As  we  walked  there  by  the  park-wall 

The  moon  followed  us  all  the  way, 

Big-faced  and  piteous, 

Like  a  wild  creature 

Snared  behind  the  impenetrable  net-work  of  the  trees; 

As  we  stopped  there  in  the  doorway 

The  moon  watched  us  all  the  time, 

Yellow-faced  and  envious 

Like  a  jealous  lover 

Peering  through  the  lattice  of  the  trees. 


[120] 


A  ROW  OF  POPLARS:  CENTRAL  PARK 

THE  poplars  stood  in  a  straight  row, 

Upright  under  the  moon, 

Facing  the  broad  sidewalk  of  the  Avenue  — 

Their  tipped  heads  rising  high  over  the  park  wall, 

Their  slender  bodies  cutting  sharply  through  the  humid 

air, 

Like  dark-draped  statues. 
Elms, 

Thick-trunked  and  fan-shaped, 
Arched  towards  each  other  across  the  walk, 
Forming  a  leafy  arcade  by  the  park  wall. 
Crowds  sauntered  through  the  arcade, 
In  twos  and  threes  and  fours 
Streaming  back  and  forth  — 
Bevies  of  young  girls, 
In  light  summer  dresses,  with  hair  curled  roguishly  over 

their  ears, 

Laughing  and  chattering  as  they  tripped  along, 
Coquetting  boldly  with  the  boys; 
Plump-bodied,  perspiring  matrons  trying  to  keep  pace  with 

their  husbands, 

In  stiff  silk  dresses  and  little  straw  hats; 
Sweethearts  strolling  arm-in-arm, 
Looking  at  each  other  happily, 
Oblivious  of  everything  else. 

[121] 


At  intervals 

On  the  long  benches  by  the  park  wall, 

Couples  sat  huddled  amorously  together  — 

Their  intertwined  shadows  projecting  into  the  walk, 

Under  the  passing  feet. 

Nearby, 

On  the  other  side  of  the  park  wall, 

The  poplars  stood  in  a  straight  row, 

Upright  under  the  moon, 

Virginally  slender  — 

Holding  themselves  stiffly  aloof. 

Afar 

The  lake  lay  in  the  moonlight  — 

Gold  and  black  and  silver 

Rippling  together. 


[122] 


THE  OLD  COURTESAN 

(AFTER  THE  BRONZE  CAST  BY  AUGUSTE  RODIN) 

SHE  is  old  and  ugly  — 

Battered  with  years, 

Like  an  inn 

That  life  has  deserted 

Long  ago  — 

Love  once  held  revel  in  her  heart; 

Youth  once  lay  captive  on  those  breasts; 

Now! 

She  is  old  and  ugly  — 

Wrinkled  with  years, 

Like  a  grape 

That  Life  has  squeezed  out 

Over  its  cup  — 

Time  has  pressed  flat  the  fulness  of  her  cheeks; 

Lust  has  sucked  dry  the  sweetness  of  her  lips; 

Now! 

She  is  old  and  ugly  — 

Yellow  with  years, 

Like  a  parchment 

That  life  has  scrawled  over  and  over 

With  villainous  rhymes. 


[123] 


PRIDE 

YESTERDAY, 

Passing  through  the  Bowery, 

I  saw  a  dry  crust  of  bread  lying  on  a  heap  of  offal, 

A  big,  starved-looking  yellow  cat  was  rummaging  through 

the  heap. 

She  seemed  to  have  noticed  the  crust  of  bread  — 
Evidently  it  was  too  hard  for  her  teeth. 
Just  as  I  was  turning  the  corner 
A  tramp  lurched  by. 
He  was  not  drunk, 
He  was  hungry  — 
So  he  staggered  as  he  walked. 
I  stopped. 

My  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  that  heap  of  offal; 
And  on  the  dry  crust  of  bread  lying  on  top  of  it; 
And  on  the  old  yellow  cat  rummaging  beside  it.  ... 

The  man  stopped  also; 

He  was  examining  that  heap  of  offal  — 

His  eyes  wandered  from  the  dry  crust  of  bread  to  the  old 

yellow  cat. 

Something  within  him  drew  him  to  that  heap  of  offal ; 
Something  within  him  revolted  against  it. 
The  man  hesitated  — 

On  the  top  of  the  heap  squatted  the  old  yellow  cat  — 

[124] 


Munching,  munching,  munching; 

The  man  hesitated  — 

Finally  he  dragged  himself  away, 

Proudly. 


[125] 


PSALM  CLI 


PRAISE  ye  the  Lord,  0  Nations! 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  the  bayonet  and  the  bullet  — 

Praise  Him  with  the  scattering  of  shrapnel,  praise  Him 

with  the  throwing  of  hand-grenades  — 
Praise,  praise  ye  the  Lord ! 

II 

Raise  ye  trenches  on  the  hill-tops; 

Build  ye  fortifications  on  the  high  places  of  the  earth; 

That  ye  may  worship  the  Lord  — 

Fittingly! 

ill 

Praise  ye  the  Lord,  for  His  vengeance  consumeth  the  Na 
tions; 

Praise  ye  the  Lord,  for  His  terror  abideth  forever; 

Praise  Him  with  lyddite  shells,  praise  Him  with  dum-dum 
bullets,  praise  Him  with  nitro-glycerine  bombs  — 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  light  artillery  and  heavy  artillery 
and  all  manner  of  ordnance! 

IV 

Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  asphyxiating  chlorine; 
Praise  Him  with  the  sacking  of  cities,  praise  Him  with  the 

[126] 


raping  of  women,  praise  Him  with  the  slaughter  of 

children  — 

Praise  Him  with  zeppelins,  aeroplanes,  dirigibles  — 
Praise  ye  the  Lord  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  praise  ye  the 

Lord  in  the  depths  of  the  sea,  praise  ye  the  Lord  from 

the  heights  of  the  air! 


Praise  ye  the  Lord  with  submarine  torpedoes  — 

Praise  Him  with  battleships,  cruisers,  destroyers  without 

number ; 

Praise  Him  with  floating  mines  and  stationary  mines; — 
Praise  ye  the  Lord  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  praise  ye  the 

Lord  in  the  depths  of  the  sea,  praise  ye  the  Lord  from 

the  heights  of  the  sky! 

VI 

Praise  ye  the  Lord,  0  Nations  of  the  earth  — 

All  ye  that  are  dreaming  of  Peace  and  Brotherhood; 

All  ye  that  are  praying  for  Justice  and  Law  — 

Let  the  guns  of  your  dreadnoughts  praise  the  Lord; 

Let  the  mouths  of  your  howitzers  praise  the  Lord  — 

Praise,  praise  ye  the  Lord! 


[127] 


A  LOST  LEADER 
(FOR  C.  E.  R.) 

I  SAW  him  once, 

In  a  great,  hushed  hall, 

Where  thousands  held  their  breath  to  hear  him  — 

Thousands  of  tired  faces  made  eager  with  hope, 

Listening,  believing,  worshipping. 

His  voice  was  like  an  insistent  trumpet  call; 

His  bold  frank  face  shone  under  his  gray  hair, 

Like  the  face  of  some  warrior  saint; 

And  his  fixed  eyes  flamed  out  of  their  deep  sockets. 

And  I  thought  of  Christ  addressing  the  multitude  on  the 

Mount; 

And  I  thought  of  One  crying  in  the  wilderness; 
And  I  waited  there, 
To  touch  his  hand, 
And  look  into  his  face; 
So  beautiful  it  was. 

Christ  turned  Judas  — 
Christ  himself, 
Reviling  his  own  disciples, 
Betraying  them  —  for  what! 
He  who  cried  to  us  in  the  wilderness; 
He  who  preached  to  us  on  the  Mount; 

[128] 


Is  this  the  same? 

One  with  our  foes  at  the  Council 

One  with  our  Lords  at  the  feast  — 

He  who  was  the  seven-fold  trumpet  blast, 

Around  the  Jericho  of  Greed  — 

Now  that  the  walls  are  crumbling; 

Nowf  that  the  city  is  ours  — 

Deserting  our  hosts  in  the  battle; 

Crowning  our  triumph  with  shame; — 

This  is  a  great  defeat! 


[129J 


TO  RUSSIA— 1917 

RUSSIA!     Russia! 

Sweet,  vast,  strong-shouldered  Russia, 

With  the  subtle  soul  and  the  simple,  guileless  heart  — 

I  never  knew  I  loved  you, 

Until  this  —  your  Day  of  Truth, 

When  your  soul  flared  up  through  the  leaden  chains  that 

bound  you 

And  melted  them  like  fire  — 
Melted  the  king's  crown  upon  your  head,  melted  the  priest's 

cross  in  your  hand; 

Shrivelled  the  black  robes  around  your  limbs; 
And  you  stood  up  among  the  nations, 
Naked  and  beautiful, 
Innocent, 

As  if  Tyranny  had  never  touched  you. 
Ah,  how  I  watched  you  then! 
How  I  looked  at  your  beauty  unrobed  at  last 
Tenderly,  reverently, 
As  I  look  at  the  body  of  my  own  love. 
But  when  you  picked  up  from  the  earth 
The  fallen  torch  of  freedom, 
And  held  it  on  high, 
For  all  the  world  to  see  — 
Then  my  tenderness  became  passion, 
And  my  reverence  became  yearning, 

[130] 


And  I  knew  that  I  was  yours  and  you  were  mine, 
Mother  and  sweetheart  and  comrade  of  my  soul! 

Russia!     Russia! 

Take  me  to  your  heart  again; 

Put  your  strong  arms  about  me  that  I  may  feel  them 

And  be  assured  of  your  forgiveness; 

I  have  sinned  against  you  greatly  — 

I  did  not  know  you; 

I  feared  you, 

Because  of  the  king's  crown  that  you  wore  and  the  priest's 

cross  that  you  held 

And  the  black  robes  that  shrouded  your  limbs  — 
I  fled  from  you 

To  an  alien  country  across  the  sea; 
I  learned  her  tongue  and  forgot  your  face; 
I  thought  her  thoughts  and  sang  her  songs; 
And  in  your  hour  of  trial  I  was  not  by  your  side, 
To  think  your  thoughts  and  to  sing  your  songs 
And  to  fight  your  fight  — 
Forgive  me! 

I  saw  only  your  black  robes; 
I  did  not  see  the  beautiful  body  beneath 
And  the  Diadem  dazzled  my  eyes  from  your  face  — 
Now  I  know! 
Now  I  see! 
I  will  fly  to  you, 

And  help  you  upbear  in  your  arms 
The  torch  of  the  new-born  Freedom 
That  you  hold  for  the  world. 
I  will  learn  your  tongue  and  go  in  your  ways, 
And  breathe  out  on  your  steppes,  in  your  forests, 
New  York's  fever  and  dust  — 

[131] 


Turgenieff,  Tolstoy,  Dostoyeffsky,  Gorki, 

TcheckofF,  Andreyeff,  Pushkin, 

Souls  of  your  living  and  dead, 

Immortal  alike  — 

I  will  sit  at  their  feet  and  learn  from  them 

How  to  love  you! 

I  will  watch  their  lips  and  follow  their  eyes; 

And  perhaps, 

If  I  prove  myself  worthy  to  love, 

I  will  be  admitted  to  the  table  — 

A  humble  guest 


1132] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE.  . 


S£P 


LD  21-95m-7,'37 


r 

M 


YB  73294 


fit*      , 


39G660 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


